Margaret  Potter 


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"DO  YOU   WANT  TO   HAVE   MURDER   DONE    HERE,    IN 
THE    HOUSE?" 


The    FIRE    of 
SPRING 


By 
MARGARET    POTTER 

AUTHOR   OF 

"  UNCANONIZKD,"    "the   HOUSK   OF   DE   MAILLY,"    "  ISTAR   OF   BABYLON,' 

"the   CASTLE   OF  TWILIGHT,"    "THE    FLAME-GATHERERS,"    ETC. 

Illustrated  by 
SYDNEY   ADAMSON 


D.   APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

NEW   YORK 

1905 


COPYKICHT,    1905,   BV 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Publithed  February,  1906 


TO 

THE  THREE   H'S 


2137733 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


"Do  you  want  to  have  murder  done    here,  in  the  house?" 

Frontispiece 

That  child,  the  little,  clinging,  sweet-faced  baby-thing  .  .   . 

had   become  her  anchorage 62 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  again         .         .     102 

"You!"  he  cried 354 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


CHAPTER  I 


In  1895,  seven  years  before  the  new  Annex  brought 
the  Pompeian  room  into  existence,  there  were,  in  Chicago, 
three  or  four  popular  resorts  frequented  by  that  small,  but 
lucrative  class  of  men  who  make  a  practice  of  knowing 
certain  unclassed  sides  of  city  life.  Of  these  places,  none 
was  more  popular  than  the  Wellington  bar:  the  ante- 
chamber, accessible  from  Jackson  street,  to  the  sacred  pre- 
cincts of  private  dining-rooms  on  the  second  floor  of  the 
hotel.  In  this  large,  square  room,  at  noon,  on  the  four- 
teenth day  of  March,  there  was  a  crowd  larger  than  usual, 
drawn  to  conviviality  perhaps  by  the  vivid  sunshine  out- 
side and  the  hint  of  spring  in  the  boisterous  West  wind. 
Round  the  bar  there  was  the  usual  loud  talk  of  La  Salle 
street  and  the  Board.  But  the  subjects  under  discussion 
at  the  tables,  were  handled  in  discreeter  fashion.  For 
instance,  in  the  corner  nearest  the  hotel  entrance,  sat 
three  men,  two  of  whom,  glass  in  hand,  were  drinking 
the  health  of  the  third,  whose  engagement  had  been  an- 
nounced that  morning. 

I 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Charles  Van  Studdiford  did  not,  perhaps,  present  the 
figure  of  the  ideal  lover.  He  was  a  man  somewhere  be- 
tween the  ages  of  thirty-five  and  forty ;  but  the  bald  height 
of  his  forehead  added  five  years  or  more  to  his  appearance. 
The  hair  that  began  thinly  at  his  temples  and  ran  back  to 
a  thick  fringe  was  of  a  reddish  hue,  reappearing  three 
shades  lighter  in  his  close-cut  mustache.  He  had  an  air 
of  extreme  neatness  in  his  dress ;  but  his  features  were  un- 
remarkable. The  eyes  were  of  a  pale  blue,  almost  watery, 
indeed;  and  few  people  knew  that  they  could,  when  he 
wished  it  so,  gaze  very  keenly,  very  deeply,  into  others. 
Nor  was  his  figure  one  to  attract  attention,  being  short 
and  stocky.  And  not  many  paused  to  reflect  that  that 
figure  had  been  known,  on  occasions,  to  assume  a  dom- 
inant p6ise. 

One  person,  however,  might  be  supposed  to  have  no- 
ticed these  good  points,  and  any  others  there  might  be. 
For  Charles  Van  Studdiford  was  certainly  engaged.  It 
had  been  the  prize  of  the  morning's  society  columns, 
which  dilated  at  length  upon  the  prospective  union  of  posi- 
tion with  wealth.  It  had  been  under  discussion  at  many 
breakfast-tables.  And  now,  here,  in  the  heart  of  the 
**  City,"  it  rivalled  in  interest  the  new  advance  in  May 
wheat.  Charles  Van  Studdiford,  the  great  plow-manu- 
facturer of  Grangeford,  the  many  times  millionaire,  to 
marry  Virginia  Merrill :  a  girl  scarcely  out  of  school, 
with  two  years  of  "  teens  "  still  to  be  gone  through ;  the 
daughter  of  a  man  once  wealthy,  but  broken  some  time 
since  on  the  wheel  of  speculative  commerce  that  rolls  so 
swiftly  in  this  western  Babylon.     Charles  Van  Studdiford 

2 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


and  Virginia  Merrill!  Many  a  Mother  sighed  as  she 
linked  the  names.  If  any  one  had  ever  imagined  that 
the  man  would  prove  susceptible,  (and  to  that  child!) 
the  race  had  probably  not  been  run  alone. 

Van  Studdiford  sat  at  his  table  in  the  Wellington  bar 
and  smiled  in  some  embarrassment  as  he  acknowledged 
the  toast  of  his  friends.  But  he  was,  whatever  his  color, 
very  well  pleased  with  himself  to-day.  The  last  hour  had 
seen  the  end  of  a  disagreeable  affair,  which  had  been 
awaiting  a  conclusion  for  some  weeks.  Muriel  Howard 
knew  at  last  that  she  was  permanently  dismissed.  At 
the  end  she  had  not  behaved  so  badly.  And  now  Charles 
was  entirely  free  to  devote  himself  earnestly  to  the  little 
girl  whose  young,  undeveloped  dignities  and  vanities  had 
so  mystified  and  captivated  him.  As,  dispelling  the  sur- 
rounding scene,  he  sat  recapitulating  the  past,  it  pleased 
him  to  think  that  no  one  who  had  known  his  man's  life 
could  so  much  as  suspect  a  certain  side  of  him  recently 
brought  to  light:  that  soft  and  tender,  gently  credulous 
side,  in  one  who  was  always  so  much  the  man  of  business, 
the  practical  money-getter;  who  liked  to  drive  a  close 
bargain  in  affairs  of  the  heart,  as  well  as  on  the  Board  of 
Trade :  the  burly  manufacturer,  in  whom,  beside  his  fac- 
tory, fine  horses  had  been  the  one  other  approachable  in- 
terest. This  was  the  man  who  was  engaged  to  Virginia 
Merrill. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  at  that  very  moment  his  two  com- 
panions, both  Qiicagoans,  and  simply  business  acquaint- 
ances, were  speculating  vaguely  on  the  self-same  thing. 
Was  it  really  possible  that  Charles  Van  Studdiford  could 

3 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


be  in  love — with  a  girl  ?  with  a  young  girl,  of  gentle  birth 
and  highest  breeding,  as  unassailable  by  the  coarser  meth- 
ods as  the  women  Charles  had  hitherto  known  would  have 
been  by  the  finer  ?  Muriel  Howard  had,  of  course,  never 
been  wondered  about.    She  was  rather  a  sine  qua  non. 

The  whiskey  was  finished.  The  conversation  lapsed. 
Clearly  some  change  must  be  made.  As  a  preparatory 
signal,  Van  Studdiford  looked  at  his  watch.  But  by 
this  act  his  idea  received  a  check.  It  was  only  twenty 
minutes  past  twelve.  There  was  more  than  half  an  hour 
still  to  be  consumed — somehow.  He  snapped  his  fingers 
at  a  waiter. 

"  Come, — have  another.    Yours,  George  ?  '* 

**  Rye,  straight,  and  a  Lithia  chaser." 

"  And  yours  ?  "  indicating  the  second. 

"  Let  me  have  some  Irish  whis " 

"  Oh !  "  broke  in  Charles,  suddenly  rising.  "  Atkin- 
son !    I  didn't  know  you'd  come  in  town  to-day ! " 

The  others  looked  up,  with  pleasure  in  their  faces. 
Philip  Atkinson  was  shaking  hands  with  his  cousin — ^and 
employer.  Afterwards  he  greeted  the  other  two  and  sat 
down  in  the  vacant  chair.  The  order  was  finished  with  the 
addition  of  two  cocktails ;  and  then,  instinctively,  all  three 
turned  to  the  newcomer. 

Atkinson  was  smiling,  agreeably,  indulgently,  at  his 
cousin.  He  was  supposed  to  be  at  the  factory  in  Grange- 
ford,  attending  to  his  work:  mysterious  work,  that 
changed  frequently,  as  he  tried  first  one  branch  and  then 
another  of  Van  Studdiford's  great  system.  But  he  was 
perfectly  willing  to  overlook  Charles'  stupidity  in  imag- 

4 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


ining  that  he  ought  to  be  in  any  place  rather  than  another 
in  this  great,  vastly  interesting  world.  In  fact,  Charles 
was  already  feeling  apologetic  for  his  momentary  annoy- 
ance, as  Philip  very  well  knew.  The  other  two  men  looked 
to  him  frankly  for  salvation  from  boredom.  So  he  smiled 
again,  and  began  to  talk. 

Atkinson! — Atkinson!  Describe  him?  Who  shall 
do  it?  Who  ever  perfectly  comprehended  the  wondrous 
vagaries  of  his  mind  ?  the  rare  talents  chaotically  crossed 
in  him  ?  the  poetry  ?  the  instability  ?  the  brilliance  that  too 
often  became  mere  effervescence  ?  above  all,  over  all,  that 
subtle,  indefinable  fascination,  that  quivered  from  him  like 
an  aura,  which  men  could  no  more  escape  than  women 
wished  to  ?  He  was  perfectly  irresponsible.  He  was  even 
perfectly  untrustworthy,  though  of  this  he  was  entirely 
unaware.  Long  ago  his  two  brothers,  Leslie  and  James, 
sober,  hard-working,  patiently  industrious  men,  had  given 
up  any  hope  of  molding  or  restraining  him.  They  were 
glad  to  relinquish  him  to  the  passionate  affection  of  their 
sister,  Madame  Dupre,  who  in  many  ways  resembled 
Philip,  and  to  the  tolerance  of  Van  Studdiford,  their 
cousin,  from  whose  employ  he  had  been  three  times  dis- 
charged, and  to  which,  after  an  interview  or  two,  he  had 
been  as  often  taken  back. 

Even  through  the  lapse  of  years  Atkinson  cannot  be 
truly  estimated.  His  fascination  veils  him  still,  dims  the 
faultiness,  gives  the  whole  a  deceptive  beauty. 

All  this,  however,  was  Philip  in  the  aggregate. 
Seated  at  a  table  in  the  Wellington  bar,  intent  upon  as 
many  cocktails  as  could  be  decently  consumed  in  the  half- 

5 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


hour  at  his  disposal,  his  romantic  qualities  were  not,  per- 
haps, so  apparent,  whatever  the  picture  he  presented.  Cer- 
tainly he  was  handsome :  remarkably  so,  with  his  smooth- 
shaven,  clear-cut  face,  his  dark  hair,  with  the  irrepressible 
wave  in  it ;  his  lustrous  gray  eyes,  shaded  by  the  blackest 
of  lashes ;  and  the  mouth  in  which  there  was,  unaccount- 
ably, no  smallest  suggestion  of  weakness  or  sensuality. 
When  he  talked,  his  face  took  on  a  kind  of  bright  boyish- 
ness. When  he  was  silent  or  abstracted,  his  thirty-three 
years  came  out  and  stood  upon  his  face,  making  him,  to 
those  who  did  not  know  him  well,  look  strangely  old : — 
old  with  an  age  not  so  much  of  time  as  of  bad  living.  But 
for  those  who  liked  him,  this  malevolent  apparition  was 
never  visible.     It  was  lost  in — fascination. 

At  the  moment  he  was  smiling,  delightedly,  into  his 
cousin's  florid  face :  making  his  congratulations  in  a  man- 
ner just  a  little  spoiled  by  an  habitual  affectation.  But 
nobody  could  have  guessed  that  he  was  chagrined  at  hav- 
ing heard  of  Van  Studdiford's  engagement  that  morning 
for  the  first  time,  through  the  columns  of  the  Tribune. 

"  Well,  old  chap,  it's  delightful !  How  did  you  do  it 
so  quietly — eh  ?  I  hadn't  an  idea  of  it.  Never  seen  her, 
but  she's  charming,  of  course."  (The  cocktail  disap- 
peared.) "You  are  certainly  the — Oh!  Fritz! — Really, 
that  was  too  bad. — Fritz !  another  dry  Martini,  and  take 
these  gentlemen's  orders. — Why,  Charlie,  I  forgot  your 
health !  " 

Van  Studdiford  smiled,  indulgently.  What  a  boy  he 
was! — But  shortly  the  other  two  men,  having  finished 
their  third  drink,  rose,  shook  hands,  and  departed  toward 

6 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


luncheon.    At  the  same  time  Van  Studdiford  again  took 
out  his  watch. 

"  Philip,  I'm  to  meet  Mrs.  and  Miss  Merrill  at  the  An- 
nex, at  one,  for  luncheon.  Will  you  make  a  fourth?  I'd 
like  to  have  you  see  Miss  Merrill." 

"  Thank  you  very  much.  Really  I — um — ^ah — I  shall 
be  delighted,  thank  you."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Philip  had 
another  engagement.  At  this  moment,  upstairs,  in  dining- 
room  "  S,"  a  young  lady  sat  impatiently  awaiting  him. 
But  Philip  was  really  desirous  of  seeing  Van  Studdiford's 
fiancee;  and — Marcia  could  wait.  She  always  accepted 
his  excuses — eventually. 

So  the  two  paid  their  respective  checks,  each  tipping 
the  smiling  Fritz,  and  started  on  their  short  walk  down 
Michigan  Avenue  to  the  Annex.  The  sun  was  bright,  the 
wind  high  and  warm,  and  Philip's  spirits  rose.  It  was 
good  to  be  free  from  work.  It  was  good  to  be  away  from 
dull  little  Grangeford,  even  for  a  day.  More.  It  was  good 
to  be  alive,  to  have  cocktails  to  drink,  women  to  wait  for 
one!    It  was 

"  Phil,"  remarked  his  companion,  dolefully  puffing  at 
a  cigar,  "  I've  got  to  go  with  'em  to  the  Thomas  concert 
after  luncheon. — Woman's  trick ! — Won't  you  come  along 
too?  In  the  intermission,  you  know,  we  can  get  out,  to- 
gether." 

"  Oh,  too  bad^  Charlie,  but  really  I  can't.  I'm  very 
sorry,  really.  Be  charming,  I'm  sure — um — "  He 
couldn't  help  a  faint  smile — "  but  I  have  an  engagement 
that  I  oughtn't  to  break.    Got  to  see  Ferguson  about  that 

ore,  you  know " 

7 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


"  I've  made  arrangements  to  attend  to  that  to-night," 
returned  Van  Studdiford,  shortly.  "  But  of  course  you 
needn't  go.    Don't  excuse  yourself." 

Atkinson  was  annoyed.  He  disliked  discountenance 
above  all  things.  It  took  a  moment  or  two  for  him  to  re- 
cover himself.  But  after  that  he  chatted,  amiably,  till  they 
turned  in  at  the  Michigan  Avenue  entrance  of  the  Annex. 

It  was  already  five  minutes  to  one ;  and  Van  Studdiford 
hurried  off  to  secure  a  table  and  order  the  luncheon,  mean- 
time leaving  his  cousin  to  watch  for  the  ladies  at  the  door. 
Philip  had  never  met  either  of  them,  but  he  knew  Mrs. 
Merrill  very  well  by  sight,  and  lounged  about  the  pillars 
near  the  elevator  quite  contentedly  for  a  minute  or  two. 
Then,  however,  he  perceived  a  man  whom  he  knew.  Two 
more  cocktails  were  in  prospect ;  and  when  Van  Studdi- 
ford came  back  at  three  minutes  past  one,  Atkinson  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  disappearance,  however,  was  so 
in  accordance  with  Philip's  habits,  that  the  host  was  not  in 
the  least  surprised ;  and,  the  ladies  having  not  yet  arrived, 
he  seated  himself  in  one  of  the  great  chairs  by  the  door, 
to  wait.  Five  minutes  more  went  by.  Then,  as  Atkinson 
reappeared  from  the  direction  of  the  bar,  Mrs.  Merrill  and 
her  daughter  came  in  from  the  Avenue. 

There  was  a  moment  of  greetings  with  Charles. 
Afterwards,  instinctively,  the  three  turned  to  Atkinson, 
who  had  withdrawn  a  little  to  the  right. 

Van  Studdiford  made  a  formal  introduction.  Philip 
found  himself  bowing  profoundly  before  a  slight,  pretty 
woman,  with  evenly  waved  white  hair,  gowned  in  the  most 
unobtrusive  style,  carrying  that  gown  as  only  women  of 

8 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


station  can.  She  murmured  a  conventional  word  or  two, 
and  then  herself  presented  her  daughter,  with  whom 
Philip  shook  hands  absent-mindedly,  while  he  surveyed 
her:  his  cousin's  fiancee.  He  was  still  occupied  in  this 
way  when  they  started  toward  the  dining-room,  it 
being  most  natural  that  Van  Studdiford  should  go 
first,  with  Mrs.  Merrill,  his  cousin  following  with  the 
young  girl. 

Atkinson  knew  at  once  that  Charles  had  ground  for 
his  infatuation,  though  he  had  not  as  yet  marked  details. 
Women  were  the  paramount  interest  in  Philip's  life.  He 
cared  for  them  and  studied  them  as  other  men  care  for  and 
study  their  professions.  He  loved  them  all,  because  they 
were  women.  All  his  life  he  had  shown  his  interest  in 
them.  And  Virginia  Merrill  pleased  him  immediately. 
Although,  to  most  men,  she  would,  at  this  time,  have  been 
merely  a  delight  to  the  eye,  his  senses  were  acute  enough 
to  perceive  other  qualities  in  her — qualities  of  tempera- 
ment and  mind.  To  him,  there  was  already  much  of  in- 
terest behind  the  young  face  and  constrained  manner. 

The  arrangement  at  table  was  highly  satisfactory. 
Virginia  was  on  Atkinson's  right,  with  a  window  oppo- 
site her,  behind  her  Mother,  and  a  strong  light  thrown 
across  her  face.  During  the  canape  she  was  studied 
covertly,  and  much  was  perceived.  First  of  all,  she  was 
beautifully  dressed.  That,  of  course,  was  her  Mother. 
The  Merrills,  every  one  knew,  were  extremely  poor ;  but 
that  was  considered  no  reason  why  the  women  of  the 
family  should  be  badly  clothed.  To-day  Virginia  was  in 
brown.  From  the  crown  of  her  feather  toque  to  the  tip 
2  9 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


of  her  suede  shoes,  all  was  one  harmonious  range  of  color. 
Her  bright  brown  hair  gleamed  red  and  gold  in  the  sun- 
light. Her  large  eyes  were  hazel,  when  one  got  a  straight 
look  under  the  extraordinarily  long  lashes.  And  the  deli- 
cate pallor  of  her  face,  the  deep  ecru  of  her  lace  waist, 
the  slender  gold  chain,  with  its  dull  gold  ornament,  that 
hung  about  her  neck,  and  the  tan  of  purse  and  gloves 
which  she  had  laid  aside,  formed  a  series  of  tones  that 
delighted  Atkinson's  artistic  soul.  He  was  very  glad  that 
he  had  come.  Marcia  presented  no  such  noon-tide  attrac- 
tions. It  only  remained  now  to  make  her  speak :  this  not 
for  the  trend  of  her  thoughts,  but  for  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
— to  see  whether  that,  too,  would  blend  with  the  whole. 
At  present,  Mrs.  Merrill  was  sustaining  the  brunt  of  the 
conversation ;  but  Philip  waited  a  proper  cue,  and  then, 
leaning  over  a  little,  addressed  the  young  girl  directly, 
with  that  too  personal  manner  which  had,  again  and 
again,  proved  irresistible  to  women. 

"  And  so  you  are  engaged  to  be  married. — And  to  my 
cousin. — Don't  you  think  he  might  have  told  me  him- 
self, a  little  sooner  than — he  did  ?  "  Atkinson  had  come 
near  betraying  that  he  had  not  been  told  at  all ;  and  this 
was  a  faux  pas  which  he  did  not  care  to  make  before 
Mrs.  Merrill. 

Virginia  hesitated  for  a  moment,  lifted  her  eyes  for  a 
short,  rather  tantalizing  glance,  and  then  smiled.  "  It  was 
only  announced  this  morning,  you  know,"  she  ventured, 
demurely  enough,  but  unable  to  keep  the  gleam  of  her 
young  delight  out  of  her  eyes. 

Atkinson  read  her  very  accurately.  Her  voice  was 
10 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


musical,  and  her  enunciation  prettily  cultivated.  She  was 
a  delightful  little  girl.  And  he  smiled,  faintly,  as  he  per- 
ceived how  broadly  she  was  displaying  the  great  solitaire 
on  her  left  hand.  Obedient  to  her  wish,  his  eyes  rested 
upon  it,  and  his  look  expressed  admiration,  though  he 
inwardly  regretted  that,  for  the  sake  of  her  costume,  it  was 
not  a  topaz. 

"  You've  been  in  Cuba  this  winter,  haven't  you  ?  "  she 
went  on,  presently. 

"  Yes. — How  did  you  know  it  ?  "  he  answered,  still 
with  a  faint  smile,  and  with  so  much  open  interest  in 
her  that  a  little  color  crept  up  her  transparent  face. 

"  Oh — Mr.  Van  Studdiford  "  (this  was  not  affecta- 
tion; she  could  not  say  "  Charles  ")  "  told  me.  That  is 
why  I  didn't  meet  you  when  I  stayed  with  Marion  Hunt, 
in  January.  I  was  in  Grangeford  for  three  weeks,  you 
know.  And  I  didn't  go  back  to  school  after  the  holidays 
because " 

"  Virginia,"  murmured  her  Mother. 

The  waiter  wished  to  remove  the  bouillon,  and  Vir- 
ginia's spoon  was  still  in  her  hand :  she  had  been  playing 
with  it  while  she  talked.  Atkinson  looked  away,  at  once, 
interested  at  the  adroitness  with  which  the  child's  Mother 
had  stopped  confidences.  The  plate  was  removed,  and 
Van  Studdiford  took  up  the  conversation.  Nor,  through- 
out the  meal,  did  Atkinson  return  to  his  first  position. 
He  had  made  his  test,  and  come  to  his  conclusion.  She 
was  a  little  too  pliable.  He  preferred  his  wax  a  trifle 
harder  to  mold. 

Luncheon  progressed,  agreeably.  Van  Studdiford  had 
II 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


made  no  mistakes  in  his  menu ;  and  the  wine,  (that  which, 
on  the  Hst,  is  called  Johannisburg) ,  was  smooth  enough 
and  mild  enough  even  for  Virginia,  who  sipped  the  golden 
liquid  with  a  girlish  ecstasy  at  her  own  importance,  that 
was  pretty  to  watch. 

And,  indeed,  it  would  have  been  remarkable  had  Vir- 
ginia Merrill,  being  herself,  not  been  happy  to-day.  At 
this  moment,  she  was  the  most  interesting  object  in  society. 
She,  who  had,  hitherto,  been  guarded  from  the  world  as 
if  it  had  been  a  devouring  monster,  was  now,  in  one  breath, 
thrust  into  the  very  midst  of  life,  with  the  prospect  of 
having  to  crowd  all  the  dear  delights  of  debutantism,  ex- 
perienced young-ladyhood,  and  the  more  important  status 
of  the  engaged  girl,  into  the  eleven  short  weeks  that  pre- 
ceded her  wedding.  Across  the  table  sat  the  man  who  had 
made  it  all  possible : — florid,  beaming  Van  Studdiford,  too 
entirely  in  love  with  her  to  understand  many  things  that 
cried  to  be  understood,  leaving  all  the  necessary  tutoring 
of  the  child  to  a  Mother  who,  with  a  pierced  heart  in  her 
breast,  was  selling  her  daughter  to  save  her  from  what 
she  herself  had  had  to  endure.  Charles  Van  Studdiford 
was  enormously  wealthy.  That  was  enough.  Anything, 
anything  in  the  world,  in  the  eyes  of  Caroline  Merrill, 
must  be  preferable  to  just  that  species  of  well-dressed 
poverty  that  she  had  struggled  with  for  the  past  five 
years.  And  as  for  love — what  should  Virginia  want  to 
know  of  it  for  years  to  come  ?  When  she  did  learn — she 
would  be  sufficiently  well-schooled  to  grapple  with  it  suc- 
cessfully. And  as  these  things  passed  through  Mrs.  Mer- 
rill's mind  for  the  hundredth  time,  how  should  she  be 

12 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


aware  that  her  last  question  had  also  been  asked,  imper- 
sonally, by  another  who  sat  at  that  same  table  ? 

They  had  reached  dessert  before  the  matter  of  the  con- 
cert came  up.  Mrs.  Merrill  had  a  box  for  the  season. 
(Each  year  she  managed  that;  no  one  knew  how.)  And 
now  she  asked  Atkinson  to  be  of  the  party  this  afternoon. 
Philip  refused,  gracefully;  his  excuse  being  much  more 
convincing  than  that  he  had  given  Van  Studdiford,  some 
time  ago.  A  little  to  his  surprise,  Virginia  turned  to  him 
with  disinterested  reproach  in  her  manner : 

"  Why  do  men  never  want  to  hear  good  music  ?  It  is 
such  a  fine  program  to-day.  You  wouldn't  find  it  heavy, 
and  you  couldn't  help  liking  some  of  it.  There's  the  Un- 
finished Symphony.  It  is  the  best — well,  the  most  distinc- 
tive, the  most  truly  Schubert,  of  anything  Thomas  plays. 
And  the  '  Ruet  d'Omphale,' — ah,  that  is — delicious !  " 

Mrs.  Merrill  smiled,  indulgently.  "  My  dear,  you  must 
not  try  to  carry  Mr.  Atkinson  away  on  your  own  enthusi- 
asm. His  taste  for  Saint-Saens  has  probably  been  modi- 
fied, as  yours  will  some  time  be." 

To  Philip,  this  comment  was  more  or  less  Greek.  So 
far  as  he  knew,  he  had  never  heard  any  Saint-Saens  at  all. 
But  he  was  sorry  that  Virginia  had  been  cut  off  in  her 
little  flight ;  and  he  was  glad  to  perceive  that  she  had  a 
talent.  Without  a  talent,  no  woman  was,  in  his  eyes,  quite 
complete.  Some  day — when  she  was  more  experienced — 
she  would  be  a  worthy  field  of  exploration  for  an  artist 
— like  himself.  But,  for  the  moment,  Marcia  lay  rather 
heavily  on  his  mind.  Women  were  so  often  unreasonable. 
It  was  high  time  he  found  her. 

13 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


The  chairs  were  pushed  back.  Van  Studdiford  rose 
reluctantly,  the  ladies  with  some  eagerness ;  for  it  was 
late.  Wraps  were  not  donned,  since  they  were  going 
through  the  tunnel  into  the  Auditorium  proper.  At  the 
door  of  the  dining-room,  Mrs.  Merrill  put  out  her  hand 
to  Atkinson. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  have  met  you. — I  have  known  your 
sister  for  a  long  time;  and  you  are  like  her." 

"  Thank  you.  That  is  a  very  great  compliment,"  he 
replied,  quietly. 

Virginia  also  turned  to  him.  "  Good-bye,"  she  said. 
"  I  wish  you  were  coming  to  the  concert." 

He  bowed,  deeply,  over  her  hand,  but  said  nothing. 
In  another  moment  they  had  separated. 

Atkinson  left  the  hotel,  and  returned  at  a  brisk  walk 
to  the  Wellington.  Probably  Marcia  was  there  still.  He 
was  only  two  hours  late  for  his  engagement;  and  that 
was  really  not  so  very  much.  Three  or  four  compliments, 
— perhaps  a  kiss — pooh ! — As  he  walked,  he  hummed  a 
little  tune :  an  air  the  words  of  which  had  pleased  him  so 
much  on  first  hearing  that  it  had  become  his  motif. 
In  reality,  it  was  a  perfect  little  synopsis  of  his  own 
character :  Gounod's  "  Chantez,  Riez,  Dormez."  He  sang 
it  now,  very  softly :  "  Quand  tu  dors,  bercee  le  soir,  entre 
mes  bras,"  and  the  picture  of  the  woman  thus  enfolded, 
was  a  new  one,  and  over-daring. 

Reentering  the  Wellington  bar,  only  for  a  moment 
before  going  upstairs,  he  was  caught  by  a  party  of 
old-time  companions,  forced  into  a  chair  at  a  table,  and 
asked  what  he  would  have.     As  Fritz  rushed  away  with 

14 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


the  order,  one  of  the  men,  Jack  Kennard  by  name,  turned 
to  him: 

"  Saw  you,  Phil,  going  into  the  Annex  with  Van  Stud- 
diford.    Did  you  meet  his  girl  ?  " 

"  I  had  the  pleasure,''  returned  Atkinson,  "  of  lunching 
with  my  cousin,  and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Merrill." 

Somebody  laughed.  Then  came  a  chorus :  "  What's 
she  like,  Phil  ?  "    These  men  were  not  of  the  Merrill  set. 

"  She  is  charming,  Charlie  is  to  be  congratulated. — 
Charming,  really !  " 

Nor  was  anything  more  to  be  got  out  of  him.  Yet 
he  was  himself  surprised  at  the  impression  left  by  that 
little  girl.  It  stayed  with  him  all  day,  and  rather  spoiled 
his  evening — with  Marcia.  Yet  perhaps  that  was  only 
because  her  young  eyes  were  so  very  brown,  so  very  clear, 
so  innocent. 


15 


CHAPTER   II 

The  Merrill  house,  a  very  large  one,  built  of  gray 
stone,  was  on  Michigan  Avenue,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Thirtieth  Street.  It  was  a  beautiful  home ;  for  it  had  been 
built  at  a  time  when  John  Merrill's  realities  were  almost 
as  big  as  his  prospects ;  and  it  had  been  designed  to  hold 
more  of  a  family  than  the  one  little  daughter  remaining 
of  three  children.  Virginia  was  eighteen  now;  and 
it  did  not  seem  so  long  ago  that  luxuries  at  home  and 
extravagances  abroad  had  been  encouraged  by  both 
parents.  Since  the  day,  however,  five  years  before,  of 
an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  corner  lard,  the  mode  of 
life  of  the  Merrill  family  had  changed,  materially.  Mrs. 
Merrill  retained  her  maid;  and  she  and  her  daughter 
dressed  with  all  the  taste  natural  to  both  of  them.  But  the 
stables  were  closed ;  and  a  good  many  rooms  on  the  upper 
floors  of  the  house  were  dismantled  and  locked — ^to  save 
cleaning,  redecorating,  and  care.  Servants  were  the  great- 
est problem  in  the  household,  for  they  had  to  be  paid; 
whereas  dressmakers  and  markets  could  be  indefinitely 
put  off.  In  the  morning,  the  ladies  took  their  tea  and  toast 
in  bed,  and  John  Merrill  ate  an  egg  and  drank  a  little 
coffee  before  he  went  disconsolately  off  to  his  remnant  of 
work  in  the  city.  He  could  usually  get  an  invitation  to 
luncheon  at  his  club;  and  his  wife  rarely  took  her  mid- 
16 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


day  meal  at  home.  As  for  dinner — the  Merrills  gave  two 
or  three  elaborate  entertainments  a  month  during  the  sea- 
son ;  and,  in  return,  were  asked  out  three  or  four  nights  a 
week.  This  was  far  less  expensive  than  not  entertaining 
at  all, — ^provided,  only,  one  knew  how  to  make  everything 
go  very  far. 

Such,  for  five  weary  years,  had  been  the  spirit  of 
existence  in  that  household : — every  burden  finding  a 
place  on  Mrs.  Merrill's  capable,  but  tired  shoulders.  And 
now,  at  last,  the  reward  of  the  long  struggle  had,  most  un- 
expectedly, come.  Without  the  expense  of  a  last  year  at  a 
finishing  school,  the  ruinous  season  of  the  debutante,  and 
perhaps  two  years  more  of  resolute  appearances  before  a 
suitable  match  could  be  found,  Virginia  was  to  marry  a 
good  name  and  a  huge  fortune,  without  even  the  encum- 
brance of  a  family  attached.  For,  with  the  exception  of 
one  sister,  Van  Studdiford  had  no  relatives  nearer  than 
cousins.  After  June,  then,  there  would  be  a  great  freedom 
for  Mrs.  Merrill.  She  could  carry  her  failing  husband 
to  Europe  in  the  summer,  to  the  South  in  the  winter,  and, 
by  renting  the  town  house,  make  their  income  ample  for 
their  simplified  needs.  Life's  shadows  were  serene  now, 
and  she  could  look  forward  to  them  without  any  of  the  old 
weariness,  the  dreaded  necessity  of  keeping  up  appear- 
ances. Unquestionably,  Virginia  was  a  good  daughter. 
The  great  coup  had  really  been  of  her  own  making;  or, 
rather,  had  been  the  unforeseen  result  of  an  accidental 
visit  to  a  school-friend.  And  now,  through  the  three  im- 
portant months  of  courtship,  she  promised  perfect  behav- 
ior, engendered,  as,  alas !  the  Mother  knew,  by  a  perfect 

17 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


ignorance  of  those  joyful  deeps  that  she  should  be  ex- 
ploring. All  being  done,  however,  the  first  shock  of  relief 
at  an  end,  and  the  prospective  son-in-law  constantly  in 
evidence,  Mrs.  Merrill  found  moments  of  unforeseen  dis- 
couragement and  many  details  in  the  situation  that  were 
not  to  her  taste.  Indeed,  so  devoted  was  she  to  Virginia's 
interests,  that  she  had  begun  to  long,  earnestly,  for  the 
impossibly  perfect :  love  and  wealth  united.  But  the  fact 
that  delicate  Virginia  as  yet  showed  not  the  faintest  de- 
sire for  the  first  of  these,  must  be,  at  present,  her  Mother's 
greatest  comfort. 

All  in  all,  Virginia  was,  just  now,  radiantly  happy. 
Her  undeveloped  tendencies  were  worldly  enough ;  and  to 
find  herself  suddenly  the  pivot  on  which  the  entire  house- 
hold revolved,  an  object  of  keen  interest  to  the  very  serv- 
ants, had  turned  her  head  a  little.  Her  wishes  were  con- 
sulted about  everything.  She  was  learning  the  pleasure 
of  planning  new  gowns,  of  ordering,  at  this  place  and 
that,  the  thousand  pretty  details  of  her  trousseau.  It 
was  to  be  complete ;  for  her  Father  had  allowed  almost  a 
year's  income  for  her  equipment,  taking  a  half -sorrowful 
pride  in  sending  her  to  her  millionaire  husband  in  need  of 
no  extravagance  that  could  be  desired.  She  even  rose  to 
the  dignity  of  a  maid  of  her  own,  who,  though  she  was  not 
to  be  allowed  to  accompany  the  bride  on  her  wedding  trip, 
would  follow  her  to  Grangeford  on  her  return,  and  begin 
the  new  life  there  with  her.  Lucy  Markle  was  an  English 
girl,  an  adept  in  her  profession,  possessed  of  the  foreign 
tendency  toward  becoming  personally  attached  to  her  mis- 
tress.  Virginia  began  to  take  a  keen  interest  in  her  own 

i8 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


individuality;  for  Lucy  Markle  soon  brought  out  her 
every  effective  point,  and  gave  her  an  air  of  distinction 
remarked  by  many  people  outside  of  her  immediate  circle. 

The  engagement  had  been  announced  on  the  evening 
of  the  thirteenth  of  March.  The  wedding  day  was  set  for 
Wednesday,  the  fourth  of  June,  the  ceremony  to  be  per- 
formed in  Grace  Church,  at  noon,  a  breakfast  following 
at  the  house.  And  on  the  same  evening  the  bridal  couple 
were  to  leave  for  New  York,  whence  they  should  sail,  on 
Saturday,  for  Europe:  the  land  of  Virginia's  desire  and 
dreams. 

After  the  announcement  of  her  engagement,  the  bride- 
elect  lost  no  time  in  selecting  her  maids: — six  girls  of 
representative  families,  who  were  permitted  to  appear 
at  a  conspicuous  function  before  their  respective  debuts 
because  Mrs.  Merrill's  daughter  asked  it,  and  because 
Mrs.  Merrill's  daughter  was  making  a  remarkable  match. 
Most  of  these  young  girls  were  away  at  their  finishing 
schools;  and  Virginia  was  thus  denied  one  part  of  her 
legitimate  pleasure:  that  of  having  constantly  around 
her  a  train  of  admiring,  flattering,  envying  attendants, 
who  would  entertain  her,  early  and  late,  and  to  whom, 
from  the  depths  of  her  vast  ignorance,  she  could  chatter 
at  will,  finding  her  audience  always  interested,  always 
credulous.  But  each  of  the  six  promised  to  be  at  home 
at  least  ten  days  before  the  great  event,  for  the  important 
purpose  of  having  their  gowns  tried  on  the  requisite  num- 
ber of  times.  And  till  that  period  arrived  Virginia  must 
be  content  with  one  companion — the  seventh  of  her  com- 
pany, the  maid  of  honor,  Marion  Hunt,  at  whose  home 

19 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


in  Grangeford  Van  Studdiford  had  met  and  fallen  in  love 
with  his  childlike  fiancee. 

In  the  previous  year  these  two  girls  had  been  room- 
mates at  a  fashionable  New  York  school :  Virginia's  first 
year  being  Marion's  last.  At  that  time  there  had  sprung 
up  between  them  one  of  those  strangely  violent  affections 
which  make  a  dangerous  episode  in  a  girl's  school-life. 
This  particular  friendship  happened  to  be  less  unhealthy 
than  the  majority  of  such  cases;  and  the  head  of  the 
school,  judiciously  perceiving  that  Marion  Hunt's  common 
sense  was  having  the  best  influence  on  little  Miss  Mer- 
rill's butterfly  wilfulness,  made  no  effort  to  check  it.  Next 
year,  Marion  was  no  longer  at  Miss  Burden's ;  and,  after 
the  Christmas  holidays,  Virginia's  Mother,  for  the  old, 
dreary  reason,  had  found  it  inexpedient  to  call  her  daugh- 
ter home.  What  more  natural  than  that  white-faced  Vir- 
ginia should  be  found  "  not  quite  strong  enough  to  go 
back  to  her  studies  "  ?  And,  also,  what  more  natural  than 
that,  not  going  back,  she  should  delightedly  have  accepted 
Mrs.  Hunt's  cordial  invitation  to  come  and  partake  of  the 
fresh  air  and  mild  society  of  Grangeford,  Illinois?  But, 
in  regard  to  the  great  conclusion  of  that  visit,  what  more 
wholly  unexpected  than  that  Charles  Van  Studdiford,  the 
king  of  the  little  city,  the  ignorer  of  women,  the  lover  of 
fine  horses,  should  have  fallen  so  precipitately,  so  hope- 
lessly in  love  with  the  dainty,  childish  creature,  who,  when 
she  perceived  his  infatuation,  was  all  too  keenly  aware  of 
the  value  of  it?  This  was  what  happened;  and  March 
found  the  destinies  of  Virginia  Merrill  settled,  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes,  for  good. 

20 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Perhaps  in  no  country  in  the  world  is  the  period  imme- 
diately preceding  marriage  so  incongruously  occupied  as  in 
the  land  of  the  epitome  of  civilization :  the  United  States. 
The  one  thing  that  is  to  be  rigidly  guarded  against,  is  any 
revelation  to  the  young  girl  of  the  grim  essentials  of  real 
life.  The  thing  to  be  steadfastly  avoided,  is  any  sacred 
communion  between  Mother  and  daughter,  any  beautiful 
and  tender  explanations  and  teachings  about  the  meaning 
and  the  necessities  of  the  new  state.  And  the  one  thing 
desired  is  to  keep  the  prospective  bride  occupied,  morning, 
noon  and  night,  with  the  most  frivolous  thoughts  and  the 
most  useless  pursuits. 

Virginia  Merrill  was  just  as  innocent,  just  as  ignorant 
of  that  knowledge  without  which  no  woman  ought  ever  to 
marry,  as  her  family  and  her  friends  supposed  and  desired 
her  to  be.  Her  mind  and  her  sensibilities  were,  perhaps, 
more  than  usually  refined.  At  the  merest  suggestion  of 
anything  bordering  on  vulgarity,  she  shrank,  helplessly, 
within  herself.  And,  never  once  having  had  it  suggested 
to  her  to  consider  the  seriousness  of  the  step  she  was  tak- 
ing, she  had  not  dreamed  of  contemplating  it  for  herself. 
Indeed,  not  once,  from  the  hour  of  her  engagement,  did 
she  allow  her  thoughts  to  dwell  upon  the  details  of  her 
approaching  married  life.  Impossible?  No.  When  all 
the  hitherto  precluded  joys  of  vanity  and  importance  are 
thrown  pell-mell  at  the  feet  of  a  very  young  woman,  why 
should  she  desire  to  turn  her  thoughts  from  them  to  un- 
pleasant responsibilities  and  duties?  It  was  at  the  altar 
of  Grace  Church,  after  all  the  congregation  had  seen  the 
exquisite  fit  of  her  wedding  gown,  the  perfect  hang  of 

21 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


the  court  train,  that  Virginia's  mind  stopped.  Beyond 
stretched  a  great,  grave  blank. 

Van  Studdiford,  of  course,  was  constantly  in  evidence. 
He  made  an  unexpectedly  good  lover.  He  showered  her 
with  gifts ;  he  deluged  her  with  questions  as  to  what  else 
she  would  like;  he  overwhelmed  her  with  tacit  prom- 
ises. In  April  he  took  her  and  her  Mother  to  Grange- 
ford,  to  see  what  changes  she  might  wish  made  for  her- 
self in  his  house  there.  But  it  was  Mrs.  Merrill  who 
decided  on  the  arrangement  of  Virginia's  own  apartments. 
Two  small  rooms  were  to  be  thrown  together  for  her  bed- 
chamber; and  a  boudoir  to  be  constructed  beyond  this 
that  would  also  open  directly  into  the  room  to  be  occu- 
pied by  Lucy  Markle,  her  maid.  Both  ladies  were  de- 
lighted with  the  comfortable  house,  the  ten  acres  of  beau- 
tifully kept  grounds,  and  the  immense  stables.  As  she 
was  conducted  from  one  thing  to  another,  Mrs.  Merrill's 
heart  grew  light  within  her.  After  all,  what  an  excellent 
arrangement  this  marriage  was !  The  one  thing  marring 
the  prospect  in  the  slightest  way,  was  the  presence  of 
Miss  Van  Studdiford,  a  slight,  red-haired,  severe-looking 
woman,  who  could  scarcely  be  called  a  desirable  adjunct 
to  the  place.  Virginia  must,  however,  meet  this  difficulty 
as  gracefully  as  possible,  and  let  circumstances  decide  the 
outcome  of  a  situation  that  Mrs.  Merrill  perceived  would 
speedily  become  difficult.  Virginia  herself  gave  no  sign 
of  apprehension.  She  was  not  trying  to  imagine  her 
future  in  this  house. 

Atkinson  was  not  encountered  during  this  visit;  nor 
did  Virginia  see  him  again  until  the  night  of  the  wedding 

22 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


rehearsal,  to  which  he  came,  of  course,  being  one  of  his 
cousin's  ushers.  Nor  did  Philip,  contrary  to  his  own  na- 
ture, concern  himself  very  much  about  the  future  mis- 
tress of  his  employer's  home.  After  his  hour  of  interest 
in  her  at  the  Annex  luncheon,  she  had  slipped  out  of  his 
calculations,  displaced  by  more  engrossing  topics.  If  she 
did  cross  his  mind  at  all,  it  was  merely  in  the  light  of 
some  one  who  was  to  give  him  a  highly  disagreeable  sum- 
mer. For  he  was  to  be  left  at  the  Grangeford  factory 
during  Van  Studdiford's  absence  in  Europe  on  the  first 
real  vacation  the  owner  had  had  in  six  years. 

Once,  in  the  last  four  weeks  of  her  girl  life,  Vir- 
ginia thought  of  Atkinson;  but  only  in  connection  with 
his  sister  Georgiana,  Mme.  Dupre,  the  widow  of  a  cele- 
brated French  painter.  Mrs.  Merrill  had  known  this 
fascinating  woman  for  many  years;  and  took  delight  in 
entertaining  her  when  she  happened  to  be  in  Chicago  on 
one  of  her  rare  visits  to  her  three  brothers.  The  time 
had  not  yet  come  when  Georgiana's  love  of  unconven- 
tionality  had  put  her  slightly  beyond  the  pale  of  her  old, 
exclusive  set.  And  whenever  she  was  in  America  she 
was  the  sensation  of  the  hour  among  the  best  people  of 
two  cities. 

On  a  Sunday  in  the  middle  of  May,  the  day  before 
she  left  for  New  York,  en  route  for  Paris,  Mme.  Dupre 
lunched  with  the  Merrills ;  and  Virginia  straightway  fell 
in  love  with  her.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  women  of  her  time ;  and,  though  well 
aware  of  her  every  attraction,  she  used  that  knowledge 
only  to  the  best  advantage.    Virginia  soon  perceived  her 

23 


THE  FIRE   OF   SPRING 


strong  likeness  to  the  youngest  of  her  brothers;  but 
thought  Mme.  Dupre  far  more  delightful  than  he. 

That  afternoon,  Virginia  was  having  an  informal 
exposition  de  trousseau;  and  while  Lucy  Markle  and 
Mrs.  Merrill's  own  maid  arranged  the  gowns  and  lingerie 
in  Virginia's  bedroom,  Mme.  Dupre  was  pleased  to  look 
on.  The  little  bride-elect  listened  rapturously  to  her 
comments  and  lively  reminiscences  of  other  trousseaux, 
other  brides  and  other  weddings  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Ger- 
main and  Park  Lane^  in  which  she  had  had  some  part. 
For  while  her  husband  had  painted  the  beautiful  women 
of  three  countries,  Georgiana  had  doubled  his  fame  by  her 
mere  existence  as  his  wife.  Before  she  took  her  depar- 
ture to-day,  she  produced,  for  Virginia,  her  wedding  gift : 
a  square,  golden  box,  beautifully  chased,  with  Virginia's 
monogram  in  topazes  on  its  lid.  The  young  girl  received 
it  with  a  cry  of  admiration.  Nor  did  any  presentiment 
of  the  part  of  that  box  in  her  future  drama,  cause  her 
heart  to  sink  as  she  examined  it. 

It  was  half  past  three  when  Mme.  Dupre  left  the  Mer- 
rill house ;  whereupon  Virginia  was  made  to  lie  down  for 
an  hour  before  the  arrival  of  her  friends  for  tea  and  the 
examination  of  the  gowns.  Mrs.  Merrill  descended  to  the 
drawing-room,  to  find  Van  Studdiford  arrived  and  talk- 
ing with  her  husband.  Amid  all  the  gay  excitement  of 
preparation  in  that  house,  John  Merrill  was  the  one  who 
stood  aside.  Hasty  consent  to  the  engagement  had  been 
extracted  from  him.  He  had  provided  an  embarrassing 
check  for  the  necessary  expenses.  And  thereafter  he  had 
sat  apart,  always  absorbed  in  his  own,  sorrowful,  dingy 

24 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


existence  of  regret  at  the  loss  of  that  which  is  body  and 
blood  to  the  American  man:  his  business.  He  scarcely 
iioticed  at  all  those  things  in  which  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter were  so  happily  engaged.  To-day  he  was  talking  to 
Van  Studdiford  only  because  Van  Studdiford  had  walked 
in  upon  him,  and  there  had  been  no  one  to  turn  him  over 
to.  Five  minutes  after  the  entrance  of  his  wife,  he  dis- 
appeared, silently,  to  his  library.  And  Mrs.  Merrill  saw 
and  seized  upon  a  longed-for  opportunity. 

She  and  Charles  were  absolutely  alone.  There  was 
little  danger  of  interruption  for  at  least  half  an  hour; 
and  there  was  something  that  she  had  long  wanted  to 
discuss  with  him.  It  was  a  matter  over  which  she  had 
debated  within  herself  for  many  weeks,  hesitating  while 
she  wanted  it  done,  and  fervently  wishing  that  in  this 
country  the  custom  was  the  same  as  in  England :  that  there 
should  be,  between  her  husband  and  Van  Studdiford,  a 
regular  arrangement  of  marriage  settlements.  For  money 
was  the  subject  of  the  much-desired  interview.  Virginia 
must  go  to  her  husband  penniless ;  but  her  Mother,  taught 
by  bitterest  experience,  as  fully  intended  that  Virginia 
should  have  some  money,  however  little,  settled  upon  her 
for  her  own,  as  she  intended  to  have  Van  Studdiford's 
millions  behind  the  family.  Of  course,  some  day,  Virginia 
would  have  all  the  wealth.  And  yet — who  could  tell? 
There  are  things  other  than  comers  in  lard  that  sweep 
away  men's  fortunes  swiftly  and  unexpectedly. 

For  this  reason,  on  that  Sunday  afternoon,  Caroline 
Merrill,  a  Mother  as  unselfish  as  environment  would  let 
her  be,  knowing  her  husband  useless  for  her  purpose, 
3  25 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


chose  a  truly  feminine  method  of  going  about  a  man's 
business.  How,  by  what  roundabout  means,  she  reached 
her  point,  she  herself  could  scarcely  have  told.  The  be- 
ginning was  made  far  afield.  Then  she  skirted  round  the 
subject,  played  with  it,  appealed  to  Charles  with  blind, 
reminiscent  cases,  finally,  with  tact,  with  delicacy,  but 
entirely  without  that  blunt  sincerity  that  pleased  him 
best,  laid  her  wishes  before  him. 

"  Believe  me,  Charles,  it  will  be  easier  for  you : — so 
much  easier,  for  both  of  you.  Virginia  need  never  be 
humiliated  by  the  necessity  for  asking.  Her  little  income 
would  supply  all  her  personal  wants.  And  you  would 
never  know  the  annoyance  of  an  untimely  demand." 

She  finished  rather  nervously,  inwardly  tremulous; 
feeling  already,  with  her  peculiar  sensibility,  that  her 
method  had  been  ill-chosen.  But  she  could  not  have  been 
straightforward  about  a  matter  bordering  so  closely  upon 
ill-breeding:  and  Charles  could  be  nothing  else.  He  sat 
very  still  in  his  chair  by  the  table,  his  face  redder  than 
usual,  his  blue  eyes  regarding  her  steadily,  a  little  coldly. 
He  was  angry.  He  very  much  resented  such  feminine 
intrusions  into  his  private  intentions.  But  he  desired 
to  show  neither  anger  nor  resentment.  Therefore  there 
was  a  difficult  pause  before  he  finally  began: 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,  Mrs.  Merrill,  that  I  shall 
ever  be  inconvenienced  by  requests  for  money  made  by 
Virginia.  Nor  need  you  be  afraid  that  I  shall  ever  refuse 
them — if  they're  reasonable.  I  shall  also  try  to  keep  Vir- 
ginia sufficiently  well  supplied  to  make  ordinary  demands 
on  me  unnecessary.     But  I've  got  my  own  ideas  about 

26 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


where  the  money  should  be  in  a  family.  If  Virginia  had  a 
big  fortune  in  her  own  right,  I'd  hesitate  a  good  deal  about 
marrying  her.  I  believe  in  the  old-fashioned  idea  that 
if  the  wife  makes  the  home  the  husband  shall  earn  the 
bread  for  it.  And  as  long  as  your  daughter  is  my  wife, 
she  shall  get  her  money  from  me.  If  there  comes  a  time 
when  I  haven't  much  left,  she'll  share  what  I  have.  But, 
in  marrying  me,  she  should  look  forward  to  every  possi- 
bility, and  be  ready  to  meet  it  with  me.  I  think  in  this 
I'm  conforming  to  the  notion  expressed  in  the  marriage 
ceremony.  If  not — well,  I'll  continue  to  think  and  to  act 
in  my  own  way;  for  as  long  as  I  live,  I  shall  be  the 
master  of  my  family.  That  is  to  be  thoroughly  under- 
stood, please,  by  Virginia  also,  before  she  marries  me." 

He  concluded  quietly  enough,  but  in  a  tone  that  set 
Mrs.  Merrill's  teeth  on  edge.  She  was  a  woman  who 
hated  reasonable  opposition.  And — there  was  no  question 
that  Van  Studdiford  had  a  kind  of  innate  coarseness  in 
him:  the  coarseness  inherent  in  the  old  idea  of  ruling 
a  woman  through  absolute  dependence :  belief  in  the  un- 
limited monarchy  of  marriage. 

The  Mother's  first,  swift  impulse,  on  the  conclusion 
of  his  speech,  was  to  inform  him,  as  quietly  as  he  himself 
had  spoken,  that,  under  the  circumstances,  his  marriage 
with  her  daughter  would  be  unadvisable  and  impossible. 
Her  second  wish  was  to  rise  and  make  her  escape  from 
the  room.  Both  impulses  she  controlled,  by  a  strong  effort, 
for  the  sake  of  Virginia.  Whether  Van  Studdiford  was 
difficult  or  not,  neither  she  nor  her  daughter  could  afford 
to  let  the  match  go.     So  she  dropped  the  subject  with 

27 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


that  patient  repression  acquired  during  a  long  and  dif- 
ficult training,  and  suavely  turned  to  other  matters. 
During  the  afternoon  that  followed,  she  appeared  as 
charming  as  usual ;  playing  her  unhappy  role  so  well  that 
even  her  daughter  never  dreamed  of  what  lay  beneath  the 
surface.  But  Mrs.  Merrill  was  bitterly  chagrined  over 
her  defeat ;  and,  what  was  worse,  she  had  had  instilled 
into  her  a  fear  of  the  future.  She  had  been  made  to  see 
that  the  man  who  had  wealth  enough  to  make  a  suitable 
husband  for  her  daughter,  was  also  possessed  of  an  indi- 
viduality of  his  own  so  marked  that  a  loveless  marriage 
with  him  might  turn  out  to  have  dangers  and  difficulties 
not  yet  surmised  by  anyone.  This  was,  perhaps,  not  quite 
the  way  Mrs.  Merrill  expressed  it  to  herself.  She  felt 
only  the  humiliation  of  having  to  accept  defeat  at  her 
son-in-law's  hands  without  complaint:  of  having  to 
deliver  Virginia  up  to  him  unprotected,  without  any 
loophole  of  possible  escape,  in  case,  after  a  time,  that  of 
which  she  was  as  yet  so  blessedly  ignorant,  should  come 
upon  her. 

The  days  passed  swiftly.  Already  spring  was  rush- 
ing into  the  arms  of  summer.  The  Merrills  had  issued 
their  wedding  invitations.  The  wedding  gown — that  ex- 
quisite little  gown  in  which  Virginia  looked  like  some 
ethereal  spirit,  had  come  home,  and  lay,  with  its  tulle 
veil,  in  a  big,  perfumed  box  in  Virginia's  room.  Gifts 
were  arriving  daily,  in  increasing  numbers ;  and  a  large 
room  on  the  second  floor  had  been  filled  with  white-covered 
tables  to  receive  them.  The  bridesmaids  had  now  all  re- 
turned, and  their  young  voices  filled  the  Merrill  house  at 

28 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


every  hour  of  the  day  and  evening.  Finally,  one  week 
before  the  wedding,  Marion  Hunt  arrived  from  Grange- 
ford,  to  stay  with  Virginia  till  the  great  affair  was  over. 

No  completer  contrast  between  women  can  be  im- 
agined than  that  between  these  two  friends.  Marion 
was  twenty-one  years  old,  not  at  all  pretty,  but  good- 
looking  in  a  wholesome  way,  of  a  temperament  wholly  un- 
emotional, containing  in  her  nature  an  overlarge  amount 
of  a  quality  valuable  but  not  feminine:  common  sense. 
Scarcely  yet  had  Marion  recovered  from  her  amazement 
at  Virginia's  engagement ;  but  she  was  genuinely  pleased 
with  the  whole  prospect,  grateful  at  being  asked  to  assist 
at  the  ceremony,  delighted  with  her  gown,  with  Vir- 
ginia's trousseau,  with  the  gifts,  with  everything,  indeed, 
that  any  woman  could  be  supposed  to  like.  Mrs.  Merrill 
took  a  fancy  to  her,  and  was  comforted  by  the  thought 
that  Virginia  would  have  her  close  at  hand  during  the 
first  part  of  her  new  life  in  a  country  town. 

The  days  were  busy  enough.  But  on  the  nights  of 
this  last  week  Mrs.  Merrill  had  decreed  that  there  should 
be  no  entertainments  save  the  wedding  rehearsal,  with 
a  supper  following,  two  nights  before  the  ceremony.  So, 
in  the  evenings,  after  they  had  gone  upstairs,  Virginia 
and  Marion,  meeting  in  one  bedroom  or  the  other,  in- 
dulged in  long,  girlish  talks.  And  Marion,  always  old 
for  her  age,  understanding,  somewhat,  a  woman's  re- 
sponsibilities, found  herself  constantly  amazed  at  the  per- 
fect innocence,  or  childishness,  or  thoughtlessness  of  Vir- 
ginia's notions  of  her  future  life.  In  London,  it  was  to 
be  a  very  amusing  thing  to  wear  a  decollete  gown  while 

29 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


dining  in  public  restaurants.  They  must  surely  stop  at 
the  new  hotel :  the  Savoy.  And  in  Paris  she  wanted  to 
get  two  more  negligees.  And  perhaps — ah,  Marion,  per- 
haps they  would  go  to  a  cafe  chantant;  for  should  she 
not  be  a  married  woman  then  ?  It  would  be  such  fun  to 
be  a  matron,  eligible  for  chaperoning  her  old  school- 
friends  !  And,  as  soon  as  she  was  settled  in  Grangeford, 
she  must  have  two  "  at  homes." — Oh,  never  mind  if 
there  weren't  enough  people  for  two.  Every  girl  in 
Chicago  who  had  married  well,  always  had  two  days 
after  she  came  back  from  her  journey. — And  Marion 
must  lunch  with  her  very  often ;  because  probably  Charles 
would  seldom  be  able  to  come  home  in  the  middle  of  the 
day.  And  Marion  promised,  gravely,  to  come ;  and  won- 
dered, and  pitied,  and  wanted  sometimes  to  laugh;  but 
asked  no  leading  questions,  nor  ever  made  a  single  sug- 
gestion that  could  disturb  the  child's  perfect  tranquillity 
and  ridiculous  little  vanities  about  the  misty  future. 

Sunday  came,  with  Church,  Charles,  and  much  writ- 
ing of  notes  of  thanks  in  the  afternoon.  On  Monday, 
a  thousand  things  were  to  be  done :  thirty  or  more  pres- 
ents to  be  unpacked,  exclaimed  over  and  arranged ;  then 
more  notes  of  acknowledgment :  Virginia  wishing  to  take 
away  as  few  gift-cards  as  possible.  At  four  in  the  after- 
noon all  the  bridesmaids  arrived  for  tea;  and  there  en- 
sued a  lively  discussion  as  to  the  arrangement  of  the  bri- 
dal procession  at  the  Church.  On  that  point,  there  were 
as  many  ideas  as  girls.  But  Virginia's  own  plan  had  been 
conceived  long  before,  and  she  was  not  to  be  turned  from 
it  now.    There  was  to  be  a  full  choir,  singing  the  Lohen- 

30 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


grin  music,  to  precede  the  ushers,  followed  by  the  rest  of 
the  party  in  regulation  order ;  "  The  Voice  that  Breathed 
o'er  Eden  "  during  the  ceremony ;  and  Mendelssohn  af- 
terwards : — a  perfectly  conventional  arrangement,  which, 
considering  Virginia's  real  taste  in  music,  was  a  little 
remarkable. 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  before  the  tea-party  broke 
lip ;  and  then  there  was  a  scramble  to  be  dressed  for  din- 
ner, which  was  hastily  eaten  that  half  past  eight  might 
find  them  at  the  Church.  Mrs.  Merrill  drove  over  in  a 
brougham  with  Van  Studdiford ;  leaving  her  husband  to 
follow,  in  a  large  carriage,  with  the  two  girls.  Thus 
Virginia,  chattering  eagerly  with  Marion,  felt  no  pang  of 
nervousness  till  they  were  actually  inside  Grace  Church, 
surrounded  by  a  little  throng  of  ushers  and  intimate 
friends.  Virginia  greeted  everyone  much  as  usual,  but 
without  any  consciousness  of  what  she  said.  She  was  in 
a  sudden  haze.  It  had  come  over  her,  at  last,  that  she 
was  going  to  be  married:  she,  Virginia  Merrill.  She 
was  to  be  married,  to  that  stout,  florid  man,  who  stood 
talking  to  the  rector ! — And  Virginia  was  in  a  breathless 
panic. 

They  were  at  the  Church  for  an  hour  and  a  half. 
There  were  repeated  trials  of  the  procession,  the  reces- 
sion, the  arrangement  at  the  altar.  More  than  once 
Virginia  and  Van  Studdiford  found  themselves  standing 
together  before  the  Reverend  Mr.  Bentham.  Each  time 
Virginia  trembled,  violently.  Each  time  there  rose  a  new 
pang  of  dread  in  her  heart.  Nor  did  the  subtle  discom- 
fort vanish  when  she  found  herself  at  home  again,  seated 

31 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


beside  her  fiance  at  one  end  of  the  long  supper-table. 
Here,  however,  were  a  few  moments  of  excitement  Be- 
fore each  of  the  bridesmaids  lay  a  small,  white  parcel : — 
the  gifts  from  the  bride  and  groom.  At  Virginia's  place 
was  a  square,  flat  box:  Charles'  gift  to  her.  And  now, 
at  last,  there  came  a  little  thrill  of  pleasure  to  the  heart  of 
the  bride.  She  had  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  wondering 
what  Charles  would  give  her.  But,  when  she  opened 
the  purple  velvet  case,  the  thrill  within  her  died. — Only 
pearls !  Only  two  rows  of  magnificent  white  pearls :  the 
fairest,  the  most  lustrous,  that  Tiffany  could  provide! 
All  her  life  she  had  had  pearls.  She  had  dreamed  of 
diamonds — the  matron's  stone ;  or  even  rubies.  But  these, 
whatever  their  price,  were  a  bitter  disappointment  to 
her.  Nevertheless,  she  must  thank  him.  And  she  did, 
very  prettily.  Of  all  those  around  her,  only  one  read  her 
face  accurately;  and  he  smiled  to  himself,  no  less  at 
her  childishness  than  at  Van  Studdiford's  ignorance  of 
women's  minds.  Philip  Atkinson  would  not  have  made 
the  mistake  of  giving  pearls  to  a  woman  under  thirty. 
But  he  did  not  speak  to  Virginia  at  all,  nor  did  she  give 
him  more  than  the  necessary  greeting  that  night. 

It  was  one  o'clock  before  the  house  was  quiet ;  and 
Virginia  was  tired  enough  to  go  to  sleep  at  once,  and 
to  sleep  soundly.  But  next  morning,  when  she  woke, 
there  was  a  weight  on  her  heart  that  she  carried  with 
her  for  many  hours.  It  was  a  quiet  day,  spent  entirely 
with  her  Mother  and  Marion.  Charles  was  to  stay  all 
night  in  Grangeford ;  so,  in  the  evening,  the  ladies  went 
upstairs  at  nine  o'clock.     To-night  there  was  no  talk- 

32 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


ing  in  the  girls'  rooms.  Marion  wisely  ignored  the  sug- 
gestion ;  for  she  thought  that  Virginia's  best  preparation 
for  the  strain  of  to-morrow  would  be  a  long,  quiet  sleep. 
And  how  should  she  know  that  the  poor  little  bride-elect, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  could  not  sleep  ?  The  lights 
were  out.  Virginia  crept  into  bed,  laid  her  head  on  the 
cool  pillow,  opened  her  eyes  wide  to  the  darkness,  and 
was  confronted  with — facts.  There  rose  before  her  the 
weeks  that  had  elapsed  since  her  engagement  was  an- 
nounced: the  ten,  butterfly  weeks,  for  the  joy  of  which 
she  had  really  given  her  promise  to  marry.  Now  they 
had  flitted  away  into  the  blackness  of  past  time.  To-night 
was  the  last  night  in  which  she  should  lie  peacefully  in 
her  white  bed  under  her  Father's  roof,  with  her  Mother 
always  within  call.  In  fifteen  hours  more,  only  fifteen 
short  hours,  she — What  was  that! 

Virginia  sat  up  in  bed.  The  handle  of  her  door 
turned,  softly.  She  caught  the  little  rustle  of  soft  silk  on 
the  carpet.  Then  some  one  bent  over  her  bed,  some  one 
was  murmuring,  tenderly :  "  Virginia — darling !  My 
little  girl !  My  baby !  "  And  Virginia's  arms  were 
clasped  about  her  Mother's  neck. 

In  the  darkness,  whispered  words  of  comfort  were 
poured  into  the  child's  frightened  mind.  There  were 
caresses,  such  as  Mothers  give  tiny  children  waked  by 
some  terrifying  dream.  There  was  that  tender  soothing 
that  still  had  power  to  dispel  what  trouble  lay  in  the 
daughter's  heart.  And  thus,  finally,  half  an  hour  later, 
Virginia  was  peacefully  asleep,  her  head  upon  her 
Mother's  shoulder.    But  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Merrill  were 

33 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


not  to  be  so  easily  closed.    How  many  hours  they  stared 
into  the  cruel  night,  may  not  be  told. 

By  a  quarter  before  twelve,  on  Wednesday,  the  fourth 
of  June,  Grace  Church  was  crowded  with  men  and  women. 
Outside,  the  day  was  perfect;  and  Society,  on  the  point 
of  departure  to  summer  climes,  wore  its  newest,  lightest, 
most  frivolous  costumes.  The  Church,  massed  with  green 
and  white,  formed  a  background  well-suited  to  the  flutter- 
ing audience  who  so  seldom  condescended  to  wait,  any- 
where, for  anything,  as  they  were  waiting  now.  It  was 
twelve  o'clock.  Would  she  be  late?  No.  The  organ 
stopped  the  voluntary.  The  chimes  were  ringing  out. — 
There.  They  were  over.  From  the  vestry  came  the  first, 
faint  strains  of  the  Lohengrin  bridal  music,  which,  the 
organ  answering,  now  pealed  through  the  church. 

"  There's  the  groom." — "  What  a  pretty  procession !  " 
— "  How  well  they  have  matched  the  ushers !  " — "  Look  at 
those  trains — only  Doucet  could  have  hung  them  better !  " 
— "  Ah !— She  really  is  beautiful !  " 

This  last  formed  an  echoing  murmur  down  the  church, 
as  Virginia  progressed,  on  her  Father's  arm.  Beautiful 
she  was,  indeed.  The  sun,  streaming  through  a  high, 
open  window,  sent  a  long  shaft  down  the  aisle  through 
which  she  walked;  and  her  bronze  hair  gleamed  like  an 
aureole  under  the  film  of  her  veil.  Her  gown,  of  the 
most  delicate  lace  and  chiffon,  fitted  her  as  if  it  were 
some  part  of  herself.  Around  her  neck,  her  only  orna- 
ment, were  the  pearls — well  matching  her  skin.  She 
carried  the  heavy  court  train  superbly.     Her  face  was 

34 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


uplifted,  and  bore  no  trace  of  tears.  What  poise  the 
child  had! 

And  in  truth  Virginia  had  not  wept  to-day.  The  ter- 
ror of  the  night  before  was  quite  gone.  She  felt  noth- 
ing now.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  been  more  passive. 
At  the  foot  of  the  chancel  steps  Van  Studdiford  advanced 
a  little  toward  her,  and  she  left  her  Father's  arm.  The 
whole  Church  leaned  forward  to  watch  the  ceremony; 
— and  they  missed  nothing.  Both  responses  were  given 
clearly;  and  people  found  everything,  from  passionate 
love  to  hatred,  in  Virginia's  tones.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
they  represented  no  feeling  at  all ;  for  she  was  speaking 
like  an  automaton. 

Few  legal  things  are  so  short  as  the  service  that  binds  a 
man  and  a  woman  together  for  a  lifetime.  In  seven  min- 
utes Mr.  and  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  were  coming  down  the 
aisle,  to  the  music  of  the  most  triumphant,  the  most  joy- 
ous of  wedding  marches.  Virginia  kissed  her  Mother, 
and  then  left  the  church  with  her  husband,  who,  through 
the  drive  home,  gazed  anxiously  at  her  white  face,  and 
found  scarcely  a  word  to  say.  At  the  house,  two  or  three 
hours  more  of  respite  awaited  her.  Amid  the  tumult 
of  enthusiastic  maids,  interested  ushers,  and  the  hundred 
gushing  friends  asked  to  the  breakfast,  there  was  no 
time  for  thought.  But  during  this  period  a  new  change 
came  upon  Virginia.  After  all,  why  should  she  be  so 
unhappy?  What  was  there  that  was  so  dreadful  about 
marriage?  At  least,  with  all  her  husband's  wealth,  cc«i- 
tentment  might  be  found.  And  it  was  with  this  unworthi- 
est  thought  in  her  mind  that  she  went  upstairs,  with  her 

35 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Mother  and  Marion  Hunt,  to  change  the  wedding  dress 
for  her  brown  travelling  suit,  the  color  of  which  had  been 
specially  requested  by  Charles.  At  half  past  four  tea  was 
served  in  the  drawing-room  to  the  bride  and  groom  and 
the  half-dozen  people  still  remaining ;  and  at  ten  minutes 
to  five  a  smart  little  brougham  drove  up  to  the  door. 

John  Merrill  stood  at  a  window,  his  back  to  the  room, 
staring  out  into  the  street  with  blurred  eyes.  Virginia's 
throat  ached,  and  she  made  no  attempt  to  speak.  But 
Mrs.  Merrill  took  her  little  girl  into  her  arms,  the  others, 
even  Van  Studdiford,  drawing  away  into  the  hall.  James 
Atkinson  appeared  there  with  an  old  shoe  sticking  out  of 
his  pocket ;  and  a  mysterious  bag  in  his  hand,  into  which 
everybody  dipped.  The  suit-cases  had  already  gone  to 
the  carriage.  One  moment : — there  was  a  rush  to  the  door. 
Van  Studdiford  caught  his  bride  round  the  waist,  and, 
through  a  furious  shower  of  rice,  the  two  gained  the 
brougham.  The  door  shut,  smartly.  The  horses  sprang 
forward.  Virginia  had  one  last  look  back  at  the  house 
that  was  no  longer  her  home,  and  in  it  saw  her  Father's 
face  still  pressed  against  the  pane.  Through  all  the 
laughing  bustle  of  the  departure,  he  had  not  moved. 

Promptly  at  half  past  five,  the  Lake  Shore  Limited, 
of  its  day  the  finest  train  in  the  world,  pulled  out  of  the 
Chicago  station.  Eastward  bound.  Virginia  was  seated 
in  one  of  the  staterooms,  staring  out,  as  the  train  swung 
along,  upon  the  squalid  quarters  of  the  dirty  city,  in  their 
frayed  summer  dress,  where  a  ragged  willow  or  two  gave 
a  wan  suggestion  of  country  glories.  The  motion  al- 
ways soothed  her  for  the  first  few  minutes;  and  to-day, 

36 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


particularly,  she  wanted  the  quiet  that  it  gave.  She  sat, 
therefore,  perfectly  still,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her 
head  leaning  back,  her  eyes  half-closed.  When  Van  Stud- 
diford  came  in  his  manner  was  stilled  by  the  sight  of  her. 
Opening  his  suit-case,  he  took  out  a  clothes-brush. 

"  There  is  a  little  rice  in  your  dress,  and  some  in  your 
hat  I  think,  my  dear,"  he  observed.  "  I'll  brush  it  out 
for  you." 

Virginia  was,  just  then,  very  reluctant  to  move.  But 
she  rose,  obediently,  and  he  brushed  at  her  till  a  few 
grains  fell  from  the  folds  of  her  skirt  and  the  waist  under 
her  jacket.  Then,  as  he,  with  a  little  effort  in  the  stoop- 
ing, set  about  gathering  them  up,  she  took  off  her  hat, 
reseated  herself,  and  went  through  the  trimming,  finding, 
here  and  there,  a  white  speck. 

The  train  moved  faster.  Van  Studdiford  seated  him- 
self opposite  her  and  was  soon  absorbed  in  the  huge, 
folding  time-table,  which  provides  soul-satisfying  read- 
ing-matter for  the  American  traveller  throughout  every 
journey  taken  in  his  country.  Before  he  looked  up  from 
his  delighted  perusal  of  the  familiar  stops,  Virginia, 
worn  out  with  the  day,  had  fallen  asleep,  her  white  face 
looking  more  peaceful  and  untroubled  than  it  had  for  the 
past  week. 

"  Sec'nd  call  fo'  dinner  in  the  dining-ca' ! " 

She  woke,  with  a  start.  Day  had  not  yet  died,  but 
the  lights  were  up  all  round  her,  and  Charles  stood  at 
hand,  washed  and  neatly  brushed. 

"  Come,  Virginia !  Let  us  go  in.  You  must  want 
something  by  this  time."  Van  Studdiford  himself  was 
very  hungry.  -« 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


Virginia  put  on  her  hat  and  followed  him  through 
the  train  to  the  dining-car,  where  they  were  promptly- 
seated  at  a  table  for  two. 

"  Cocktail,  my  dear  ?  "  he  asked,  as  the  waiter  bent 
over  them. 

She  refused,  not  because  she  did  not  really  wish  to 
taste  one,  but  because  of  the  tone  in  which  he  offered  it. 

"  One  dry  Martini,  then,  and  tomato  soup  for  two. — 
And  salted  almonds,  you  know,  and  the  rest  of  it !  " 

"  y-es  sah ! "  responded  the  waiter,  darting  away. 

Virginia  leaned  back  against  the  end-board  behind  her. 
Her  unpremeditated  nap  had  made  her  head  ache  a  little ; 
and  the  closeness  of  the  car  was  unpleasant.  Van  Studdi- 
ford  regarded  her  uneasily.  She  looked  more  delicate 
than  he  had  heretofore  thought  her ;  and  she  did  not  seem 
very  talkative.    Was  it  possible  that  she  could  sulk? 

Fortunately  the  steward  now  arrived,  placing  a  cocktail 
before  him.  He  drank  it,  politely,  to  his  bride,  who  re- 
turned a  slight  smile.  Immediately  afterward  the  soup 
came;  and  Virginia  felt  some  interest  in  it  now.  But 
before  her  plate  was  half  empty  she  ceased  to  eat  for  a 
moment,  while  she  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  her  hus- 
band. His  head  was  bent  over,  till  only  its  bald  top  and 
a  part  of  his  pink  face,  grotesquely  fore-shortened,  were 
visible.  He  was  eating  his  soup  vigorously,  supping  it 
with  keen  enjoyment. 

Virginia  looked,  turned  her  eyes  away,  and  then  fas- 
tened them  on  him  again,  while  a  slow  flush  spread  over 
her  pale  face.  Heavens !  How  disgusting  he  was ! — ^And 
she  was  married  to  him ! 

38 


CHAPTER  III 

The  little  city  of  Grangeford  was  one  of  the  many 
Illinois  towns  that  have  been  robbed  of  their  birthright 
by  the  phenomenal  growth  of  the  great  metropolis  near-by. 
Grangeford  was  older  than  Chicago,  was  admirably  situ- 
ated on  a  river,  and  had  been  a  successful  manufacturing 
place  in  its  rival's  infancy.  But  where  it  stood  in  the 
fifties,  it  stands  now :  a  city  indeed,  but  wholly  dependent 
for  its  comforts  and  its  luxuries  on  its  overwhelming 
neighbor. 

Grangeford  had  twelve  thousand  inhabitants;  and  of 
these,  perhaps  fifty  were  people  worth  knowing  well. 
Humble  as  they  were  in  their  own  estimation,  after  daily 
perusal  of  the  society  columns  of  Chicago  papers,  there 
was,  nevertheless,  something  in  their  quiet  social  life,  a 
solidity,  an  unchangeableness,  an  absence  of  rivalry  or 
strain,  that  gave  to  their  gatherings  a  tone  not  to  be 
found  in  the  blatant  gaucherie  of  the  so-called  smart  set 
of  the  great  city.  The  daily  habits  of  life  of  these  peo- 
ple were  arranged  rather  for  comfort  than  for  fashion. 
Nearly  everyone,  the  Hunts  included,  dined  in  the  middle 
of  the  day;  few  breakfasted  later  than  half  past  seven; 
and  the  pretty  supper  was  usually  served  at  six.  At  the 
same  time,  none  of  these  families,  finding  themselves  in  the 
Annex,  the  Waldorf,  or  the  Carleton,  as  the  case  might  be, 

39 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


would  have  been  in  the  least  at  a  loss  to  order  a  proper, 
even  an  artistic,  luncheon  or  dinner  for  any  number.  And 
though  people  in  cities  have  nothing  to  tempt  them  toward 
a  brief  and  early  evening  meal,  the  inhabitants  of  country 
towns  have  good  cause  not  to  imprison  themselves  in  the 
house,  at  table,  during  the  sunset  hour  and  the  twilight 
that  follows. 

At  many  Grangeford  tables,  on  the  evening  of  the 
ninth  of  October,  the  same  subject  was  under  discussion : 
a  subject  more  than  usually  interesting,  in  that  it  con- 
cerned people  well  known  in  the  great  world,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  closely  touching  themselves.  For,  on  the  mor- 
row, Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Van  Studdiford,  the  hitherto 
King  of  Grangeford  and  his  bride,  were  coming  home.  To- 
morrow they  would  arrive  from  their  protracted  honey- 
moon ;  and  the  town  might  see  what  four  months  of  mar- 
ried life  had  done  for  their  bluff  millionaire ;  and  also  for 
little  Miss  Merrill's  shy  graciousness  and  delicate  beauty. 
Most  of  the  members  of  Grangeford  society  had  been  at 
the  wedding ;  and  since  that  day  Virginia  had  been  a  fre- 
quent object  of  admiration  and  discussion  among  them. 
Her  homecoming,  also,  had  been  eagerly  looked  forward 
to ;  for  soon  thereafter  there  was  sure  to  be  some  sort  of 
entertainment  in  the  great  house  on  the  hill.  But,  just 
now,  the  primal  and  important  question  with  each  family 
was,  how  soon,  and  at  what  period  of  the  day  or  evening, 
it  would  be  best  to  call. 

Marion  Hunt,  of  course,  would  go  at  once,  and  infor- 
mally: in  the  morning,  doubtless.  Old  Major  and  Mrs. 
Pattison,  never  seen  apart,  even  at  market,  decided  on  an 

40 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


afternoon  a  week  after  the  return.  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Has- 
well,  the  Doctor  not  Mr.  Van  Studdiford's  physician, 
would  wait  ten  days — if  they  could.  Dr.  Hollis  told 
his  wife  to  run  in  on  the  third  or  fourth  day.  Law- 
rence Burnwell,  now  first  bachelor  in  Grangeford  ( Philip 
Atkinson  being  scarcely  counted  as  a  resident)  thought 
of  presenting  himself  for  a  few  moments  on  Sunday  even- 
ing; he  having  a  new  white  vest  that  looked  extremely 
well  with  his  frock  coat.  The  Reverend  Heminway  and 
his  three  daughters,  Clarissa,  Molly  and  Jane,  talked  the 
matter  over  earnestly  for  five  nights ; — and  the  end  was 
a  general  family  dissension.  Lastly,  Madam  Farnsworth, 
dictatress,  in  her  quiet  way,  of  all  the  town,  and  a  woman 
eminently  fitted  for  that  post,  decided  to  wait  till  young 
Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  had  indicated  her  own  wishes  in  the 
matter  of  general  acquaintanceship.  For  she  guessed  that 
Virginia  considered  herself  of  a  class  apart  from  the  peo- 
ple among  whom  she  was  coming ;  and  she  knew  also  that 
there  is  no  one  so  diflficult  to  deal  with  as  an  inexperienced 
young  woman. 

Madam  Farnsworth's  quiet  surmises  were  right. 
From  the  very  beginning  Virginia,  sometimes  conscious- 
ly, oftener  not,  was  destined  to  disturb  the  plans  of  her 
fellow-townspeople.  First  of  all,  she  did  not  arrive  on 
the  tenth,  with  her  husband ;  but  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
twelfth :  having  stayed  over  in  Chicago,  with  her  Mother, 
for  an  extra  two  days.  Only  Mrs.  Hunt  and  Marion,  be- 
side Miss  Van  Studdiford,  were  at  the  station  to  meet  her. 
Charles  was  at  the  factory,  involved  in  a  labyrinth  of  work 
left  undone  by  Atkinson.  And  the  intimate  friends  of  the 
4  41 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


family,  having  greeted  the  solitary  Charles  two  days  be- 
fore, on  the  11.40  train,  decided  not  to  assail  his  wife 
alone,  and  restrained  their  curiosity  till  a  more  formal 
opportunity. 

Nevertheless,  Virginia's  arrival  was  a  ceremony. 
There  were  those  who  saw  her — and  they  never  seemed 
to  forget  it,  as  she  alighted  from  the  train  and  stood  for  a 
few  moments  on  the  platform :  slender,  misty-eyed,  cling- 
ing a  little  to  Marion  Hunt ;  with  her  maid,  Lucy  Markle, 
behind  her,  Miss  Van  Studdiford  awkwardly  waiting  in 
front,  and,  at  a  little  distance  to  the  right,  her  eight 
trunks,  in  a  tumbling  pile,  as  they  had  been  thrown 
off  the  train.  Marion  gazed  into  the  face  of  her  friend 
with  earnest  inquiry,  finding  there  less  actual  change  than 
a  transitional  indefiniteness.  The  schooling  of  the  past 
months  had  been  severe;  but  it  had  not  yet  driven  the 
childish  youth  from  her. 

Presently,  tired  of  her  position,  gaunt  Miss  Van  Stud- 
diford advanced  toward  "  Charles'  wife,"  and  kissed  her, 
solemnly.  Lucy  carried  two  bags  to  the  surrey  which 
was  evidently  awaiting  her  mistress,  and  climbed  into  the 
seat  beside  the  coachman,  smiling  pleasantly  as  she  did 
so,  and  saying,  in  her  English  voice: 

"  I've  Madam's  trunk  checks.  Shall  I  leave  them 
with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss,"  returned  Sefton,  with  a  broad.  Cockney 
accent.  And  Lucy  smiled  again.  After  all,  she  might 
come  to  feel  at  home  in  Grangeford. 

Virginia  left  the  Hunts  only  on  condition  that  Marion 
should  come  to  her  early  in  the  morning,  to  watch  the  un- 

42 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


packing  of  her  Paris  trunks.  Then,  at  last,  she  followed 
Mary  Van  Studdiford  to  the  surrey,  and  seated  herself 
behind  Lucy.  Sefton  jerked  his  reins,  spoke  to  the  ani- 
mals, and,  in  a  moment,  they  were  off,  up  the  wide,  maple- 
shaded  street,  to  James  Road,  far  along  which,  to  the 
South  of  the  town,  near  that  spot  where  the  well-kept 
street  became  a  country  highway,  stood  the  Van  Studdi- 
ford house.  Virginia  knew  the  city  and  the  location  of 
her  new  home  very  well ;  but  she  glanced  at  everything 
with  new  eyes :  the  pretty  streets  and  houses  of  the  North 
side,  the  smoky  barrenness  of  the  manufacturing  and  busi- 
ness portion  along  the  river,  where  the  great  plow  fac- 
tory centred  everything ;  and  again  at  the  residence  streets 
of  the  South  side,  where  the  big  yards  around  the  homes 
were  adrift  with  heaps  of  fallen  maple-leaves,  red  and 
gold  and  richest  bronze.  They  had  not  to  pass  through 
the  thickly  populated  Eastern  quarter,  where  the  factory 
workers  lived;  and  for  many  years  after  her  marriage 
Virginia  knew  nothing  of  that  part  of  Grangeford. 

Most  of  the  drive  was  silent ;  though  Miss  Van  Studdi- 
ford tried  her  best  to  be  agreeable,  and  Virginia  responded 
politely  to  her  trite  remarks.  Only  one  question  did  the 
bride  venture  of  her  own  accord,  though  even  this  matter 
was  indifferent  to  her.  She  asked  if  Philip  Atkinson  were 
still  living  in  the  Van  Studdiford  house. 

"  He  left  a  week  ago  on  his  vacation,"  was  the  reply. 
"  And  Charles  says  he  has  got  to  go  to  Cuba  again  as 
soon  as  he  gets  back." 

Virginia  felt  a  little  surprise  that  she  should  have 
so  keen  a  sense  of  disappointment  in  not  seeing  Philip 

43 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


on  her  arrival.  But  presently  they  were  driving  into  the 
)rard  of  her  new  home,  and  everything  else  was  forgotten. 

The  Van  Studdiford  place,  the  largest  in  Grangeford, 
a  huge  red  and  gray  house  set  in  the  middle  of  ten  acres  of 
beautifully  kept  grounds,  with  James  street  on  the  East,  a 
patch  of  woods  on  the  South,  and  the  river  for  a  West- 
ern boundary,  had  been  fittingly  prepared,  without  and 
within,  for  the  reception  of  its  new  Mistress.  When  Car- 
son, the  butler,  opened  the  door  before  the  bell  could  be 
rung,  Virginia  found  all  the  servants  ranged  formally  at 
the  end  of  the  big  hall  to  be  greeted  by  her.  Carson,  with 
large  dignity,  indicated  them  one  by  one ;  and  Virginia, 
much  astonished  and  not  a  little  bewildered  at  this  pro- 
ceeding, spoke  to  each  with  the  apparent  repose  of  a 
matron  of  fifty ;  and  then,  in  a  panic,  demanded  to  be  taken 
to  her  own  room.  Immediately  Carson,  motioning  the  as- 
semblage away  with  a  quick  gesture,  ceremoniously  con- 
ducted her  upstairs,  making  her  wish  at  each  step  that  she 
had  been  content  to  remain  below.  However,  they  halted 
at  last,  before  a  closed  door,  and  Carson  observed : 

"  Our  usual  dinner  hour.  Madam,  has  been  seven 
o'clock.    And  where  shall  I  serve  tea  ?  " 

It  was  already  half  past  five ;  but  the  suggestion  of  tea 
was  the  first  comfortable  thing  she  had  found  in  her  new 
surroundings ;  and  her  heart  and  her  manner  came  back 
together  as  she  answered :  "  Bring  tea  to  my  room  at 
once.  I  will  be  down  at  seven."  And  without  remember- 
ing her  sister-in-law,  who  had  disappeared  upon  their  ar- 
rival, she  opened  the  door,  ran  into  her  room,  and  flung 
herself  into  a  morris  chair  by  the  bay-window.  While  she 

44 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


sat  there,  gazing  about  her,  making  no  effort  to  move, 
Lucy  Markle  entered  by  another  door,  removed  her  hat 
and  gloves,  and,  while  she  turned  to  get  slippers  from  the 
travelling-bag,  Virginia  found  energy  enough  to  take  off 
her  coat.  It  was  an  unspeakable  luxury  to  have  her  maid 
again ;  for  Charles  had  been  a  poor  substitute  on  the  wed- 
ding trip ;  and  Lucy  had  spent  the  whole  summer  in  Mrs. 
Merrill's  household  and  Van  Studdiford's  pay,  because 
Virginia  liked  her  and  would  not  let  her  go. 

In  a  space  of  time  short  enough  to  prove  Carson's 
efficacy,  tea  arrived,  well  arranged,  and  Virginia,  reviving 
under  its  mild  stimulation,  sat  up  straighter  and  exam- 
ined her  bedroom.  Certainly  it  was  as  pretty  as  she  her- 
self could  desire :  done  in  shades  of  yellow,  from  butter- 
color  to  cream ;  and  the  little  stiffness  in  the  placing  of  the 
furniture,  that  bespoke  Miss  Van  Studdiford's  hand, 
would  disappear  forever  when  Virginia  had  lived  there  a 
single  night.  The  one  disadvantage  in  the  room  lay  in  its 
three  doorways,  two  of  which  were  covered  only  by  silk 
curtains.  The  first  of  these  opening  into  a  large  bath- 
room, which  was  connected  with  a  great,  cedar-lined 
wardrobe;  and  the  second  into  a  boudoir,  the  daintiest 
little  place  imaginable,  from  the  far  end  of  which  one 
could  enter  the  small  room  to  be  used  by  Lucy  Markle. 
To  the  maid,  this  arrangement  seemed  everything  that 
could  be  wished ;  but  she  wondered  a  little,  nevertheless, 
where  her  Master  was  to  sleep.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
Charles'  room  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  just 
over  the  dining-room,  some  distance  away. 

When  her  tea  was  finished  Virginia  walked  about, 
45 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


mentally  arranging  her  belongings,  and  investigating  her 
new  domain  with  some  interest.  But  after  fifteen  min- 
utes she  returned  to  her  chair  again,  and  sat  there,  list- 
lessly gazing  out  of  the  window,  a  look  on  her  face  that 
Lucy  tried  in  vain  to  account  for:  a  look  of  weariness, 
of  indifference,  that  amounted  almost  to  pain.  And,  in- 
deed, Virginia's  heart  was  full  of  dread :  dread  of  the  mere 
prospect  of  dinner,  with  strange  servants,  in  a  strange 
place :  dread  of  her  stiff  sister-in-law ;  worst  of  all,  dread 
of  seeing  Van  Studdiford,  of  having  to  sit  across  the 
table  from  him,  of  having,  for  the  five  hundredth  time, 
to  watch — ^and  hear  him — eat. 

At  six  o'clock  the  trunks  arrived  and  were  ranged  in 
a  row  outside  the  bedroom  door.  Then-  Virginia  was 
prevailed  upon  to  bathe,  and  have  her  hair  done,  and  to 
dress  for  dinner  in  a  gown  of  dull,  bluish  crepe,  that 
Charles  especially  fancied. 

It  was  ten  minutes  to  seven  when  Mrs.  Van  Studdi- 
ford walked  into  the  long  drawing-room,  to  find  her  sister- 
in-law  seated  there,  but  no  sign  of  Charles.  Virginia 
wandered,  instinctively,  to  the  piano,  and  began  to  play, 
softly,  idly,  but  with  a  delicacy  of  touch  and  expression 
that  at  once  marked  her  a  musician  born.  Five  minutes 
later  there  was  a  sound  of  rapid  hoofs  on  the  gravel  out- 
side, and  presently  Van  Studdiford,  unshaven  and  soiled 
with  work,  came  hurriedly  into  the  room,  kissed  his  sister, 
and  then  went  to  his  wife.  As  he  looked  at  her  there 
was  a  gleam  of  admiration  in  his  eyes,  and  a  genuine 
tenderness  in  his  manner  as  he  took  her  about  the  waist 
and  kissed  her.      And  although  the  only   light   in    her 

46 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


face  was  one  of  weariness,  still  she  returned  his  kiss 
gently,  and  he  was  satisfied.  For  Virginia,  selfish,  capri- 
cious, unloving  and  unhappy  as,  at  this  time,  she  was, 
had  nevertheless  completely  conquered  a  hard  man.  Van 
Studdiford  adored  her ;  and,  in  his  eyes,  she  was  faultless. 

Many  days  went  by,  and,  by  degrees,  the  Grangeford 
people  became  exasperated  at  the  difficulty  of  knowing, 
or  even  seeing,  young  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford.  Two  or  three 
of  the  more  daring  had  called,  and  been  received,  it  is 
true ;  but  the  accounts  they  brought  away  of  the  manner 
of  the  young  matron  were  not  such  as  induced  others 
to  try  their  experiment.  At  the  same  time  there  flew 
about  such  alarming  reports  of  the  state  and  ceremony 
kept  in  the  Van  Studdiford  household,  that  even  Lawrence 
Burnwell  decided  to  refrain  from  "  dashing  in  "  on  Sun- 
day evening:  afraid,  at  the  last  moment,  that  a  white 
vest  and  frock  coat  might  not  be  suitable  in  that  alarming 
place.  Indeed,  it  was  even  possible  that  on  Sundays,  as 
on  week-days,  these  remarkable  people  dined  at  night; 
in  which  case  Van  Studdiford  might  appear  in  a  dinner 
coat.  The  Misses  Heminway  fairly  trembled  at  this 
thought ; — and  yearned  to  know  if  it  were  true. 

At  last,  when  feminine  Grangeford  was  in  a  state  of 
lifted  eyebrows  whenever  Virginia  was  mentioned,  there 
came  a  bolt  from  the  blue  in  the  shape  of  elaborately  en- 
graved invitations  informing  all  Grangeford  society  that 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  would  be  at  home  on  the 
evening  of  Thursday,  October  the  twenty-ninth,  at  half 
after  eight  o'clock.  Here  was  a  theme! — if  Grangeford 
wished.    But  apparently  Grangeford  did  not  wish.    Cer- 

47 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


tainly  it  was  most  pleasant  that  Charles  Van  Studdiford 
should  ask  his  friends  to  meet  his  bride.  But  it  was  not 
strange.  No.  Grangeford  pulled  itself  together  and 
looked  Virginia  in  the  eye.  Did  she  imagine  they  did 
not  know  how  to  conduct  themselves  about  an  evening 
reception?  There  was  a  butler  at  her  table,  was  there? 
She  dined  at  night?  Well,  when  there  was  a  family  of 
little  ones  to  be  cared  for,  she  would  see  how  unhealthy 
the  custom  was.  At  any  rate,  she  should  not  put  them 
down  as  country  folk  without  any  knowledge  of  the  mys- 
terious workings  of  etiquette.  And,  with  many  an  un- 
translatable shrug,  the  ladies  unpacked  and  aired  their 
evening  gowns,  and  began  otherwise  to  prepare  for  what 
was  eventually  and  inevitably  to  be  called :  "  the  function." 
Virginia,  lonely,  even  forlorn  as  she  felt  in  the  great 
house,  never  suspected  the  attitude  which  Grangeford 
had  gradually  been  taking  toward  her.  It  is  scarcely 
probable,  however,  that,  had  she  known  about  it,  she 
would  have  made  the  least  effort  to  change  it.  Poor  child ! 
How  should  she  realize  that  on  her  relations  with  the  peo- 
ple of  that  country  town  must  depend  the  largest  part  of 
the  happiness  of  all  her  future  years?  Fortunately,  one 
person  who  was  near  to  her  heart  did  understand  this. 
Mrs.  Merrill,  tied  to  Chicago  as  she  still  was  by  a  lack  of 
money  and  a  husband  whose  mind  was  failing  rapidly, 
nevertheless  found  time  to  ply  Virginia  with  constant  ad- 
vice regarding  her  social  starting-point :  the  first  entertain- 
ment in  her  new  home.  It  was  Mrs.  Merrill  who  had 
suggested  it;  Mrs.  Merrill  who  planned  all  its  details, 
from  the  making  it  an  evening  affair  to  the  color  of  the 

48 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


candles.  And,  on  the  twenty-seventh  of  the  month,  the 
Mother  left  her  invalid  in  charge  of  his  nurse,  and  went 
to  Grangeford  to  stay  through  the  week,  taking  with  her 
her  maid,  and  the  most  elaborate  evening  gown  she  pos- 
sessed. 

Owing  wholly  to  Mrs.  Merrill's  efforts,  knowledge 
and  tact,  that  reception  was  a  success  talked  of  for  years 
to  come;  and  it  went  far  toward  removing  the  prejudice 
against  Mrs.  Merrill's  daughter.  However,  if  the  Van 
Studdiford  house  was  radiant  with  light,  walled  with 
flowers,  filled  with  waiters  and  flowing  with  golden  wine, 
Grangeford  society  also  outdid  itself.  The  eighty  or  more 
people  that  had  been  invited  all  came,  and  were,  every  one 
of  them,  perfectly  easy,  perfectly  polite,  and  infinitely 
better  dressed  than  Mrs.  Merrill  had  thought  possible. 
Virginia  herself  was  amazed;  and  within  an  hour  her 
guests  rose,  in  her  estimation,  to  a  point  whence  they  could 
command  her  respect.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  are  few 
large  evening  affairs  in  Chicago  where  some  women,  at 
least,  do  not  defy  every  law  of  taste  and  propriety  and 
appear  in  high-necked  gowns,  with  hats!  Not  so  here. 
Virginia  herself,  in  pale  yellow  tulle,  with  her  pearls 
about  her  neck,  and  a  g^eat  bouquet  of  Perle  de  Jardin 
roses  in  her  arm,  was  the  most  simply  gowned  but  in- 
evitably the  most  beautiful  woman  there. 

Grangeford  itself  graciously  admitted  this.  For  more 
than  half  an  hour  old  Major  Pattison  stood  in  the  North 
comer  of  the  drawing-room,  a  napkin  hanging  from  his 
low-cut  vest,  a  plate  with  a  glass  of  champagne  cup  on 
it  held  chin  high,  while  he  poured  forth  compliments  about 

49 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


his  hostess,  his  host,  his  hostess'  Mother,  the  house,  the 
party,  the  guests,  and  the  "  punch " ;  while  his  httle, 
withered,  charming  old  wife  hovered  close  about  him, 
fearful  lest  some  of  their  friends  might  miss  his  elo- 
quence. Lawrence  Burnwell  performed  astonishing  feats 
in  the  dining-room;  yet  never  appeared  to  be  more  than 
ten  feet  from  Virginia's  side.  When  the  dancing  began 
he  had  the  temerity  to  ask  her  for  the  first  waltz,  and 
panted  with  pride  at  the  memory  of  that  achievement 
for  days  after.  The  Reverend  Heminway,  heart  of 
a  bouquet  of  bright-eyed  daughters,  wandered  slowly 
through  every  room  in  the  house,  beaming  over  his  glasses 
at  the  chorus  of  "  Ahs !  "  and  "  Ohs !  "  of  the  Misses 
Clarissa,  Molly  and  Jane.  Doctors  Haswell  and  HoUis, 
whose  rivalry  now  and  again  extended  a  little  beyond  the 
line  of  friendliness,  were  seen  to  pledge  each  other  more 
than  once,  in  the  heartiest  way.  Mr.  Aronson,  the  lawyer, 
a  childless  widower,  danced  twice  with  Marion  Hunt,  and, 
later,  took  her  to  the  dining-room.  And  Marion  was  glad 
to  accept  his  attentions,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  taking 
her  thoughts  from  herself.  For  to  Marion  only,  out  of  all 
that  company,  was  the  evening  not  wholly  a  happiness. 
Someone  was  missing  from  the  rooms:  someone  whose 
presence  had  long  ago  begun  to  constitute  happiness  to 
her.  Philip  Atkinson  was  not  in  Grangeford ;  and,  sud- 
denly, Grangeford  was  empty. 

It  was  half  past  twelve  before  the  last  guest  of  this 
extended  reception  had  gone.  Mrs.  Merrill,  well  pleased 
with  the  evening's  success,  was  glad  enough  to  get  into 
bed  and  forget  even  her  anxiety  about  her  husband  in 

50 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


sleep.  By  a  quarter  past  one  Van  Studdiford,  in  his  room, 
and  his  sister  in  hers,  were  alike  unconscious  of  the  wak- 
ing world.  Only  Virginia  could  not  sleep.  Only  Virginia, 
aching,  burning,  freezing,  sick,  faint,  palpitating,  in  quick 
succession,  could  not  shut  her  eyes.  What  was  the  mat- 
ter with  her?  Was  she  going  to  be  very  ill?  Was  she 
going  to  die? — alone?  without  any  help?  She  was  far 
too  miserable  to  care.  Lights  danced  before  her  eyes. 
The  hum  of  voices  filled  her  ears.  Slowly,  by  impercep- 
tible degrees,  she  fell  into  a  feverish,  dreamful  sleep. 

Breakfast  was  very  late  at  the  Van  Studdiford  house 
next  morning.  Van  Studdiford  had  been  at  work  in  the 
factory  for  two  hours  before  Mrs.  Merrill  and  Miss  Mary 
met  in  the  dining-room.  Only  then  did  the  Mother  in- 
quire after  Virginia,  to  be  told  that  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford 
was  suffering  greatly,  and  could  not  get  up.  Leaving  her 
meal  untouched,  Mrs.  Merrill  hurried  to  her  daughter's 
room,  with  the  result  that,  ten  minutes  later,  a  groom 
was  speeding  down  the  hill,  along  the  James  Road,  after 
Doctor  HoUis. 

Four  days  later  Mrs.  Merrill,  daring  to  stay  away 
from  her  invalid  no  longer,  left  Grangeford.  Virginia 
was  about  again,  drearily.  Care  and  skill  had  pre- 
vented the  consequences  of  her  pathetically  ignorant  im- 
prudence. But  even  the  Mother  did  not  dream  of  the 
state  of  mind  in  which  she  left  her  child :  the  blank  terror, 
the  dread  of  ensuing  days  which  she  must  face  alone,  too 
shy  to  confess  herself  to  anyone,  even  her  oldest  friend. 
For  Virginia's  young  eyes  had  just  been  opened  to  what 

5-1 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


hitherto  had  been  the  mystery  of  Hfe ;  and,  in  the  strange- 
ness of  it,  horror  came  forth  and  claimed  her. 

November,  the  melancholy  month,  had  come.  Prairie 
winds  shook  the  last,  hectic  leaf  from  the  maples.  The 
well-cared-for  yards  were  being  put  into  their  winter 
state:  bushes  wrapped  in  straw,  lawns  covered  from  the 
approaching  cold.  The  long,  Grangeford  streets,  robbed 
of  their  borders  of  softening,  shadowy  foliage,  looked 
desolate  enough.  The  smoke  from  the  factories  on  the 
river  seemed  to  cover  the  dull  sky  with  a  darker  curtain. 
The  afternoons  were  short,  the  mornings  late,  and  supper 
was  eaten  by  lamplight.  Grangeford  folk,  not  averse  to 
winter,  busied  themselves  in  pleasant  ways :  went  to  Chi- 
cago to  shop  and  do  the  theaters;  gave  informal  sewing 
parties ;  studied  the  lengthening  society  columns  in  the 
Tribune  and  the  Times-Herald,  and  even  began  to 
plan  for  a  function  or  two  of  their  own.  They  were 
as  happy,  in  their  mild  way,  as  in  the  Spring,  perhaps. 
But  to  the  newcomer  among  them  everything  was  very 
different.  Poor  Virginia!  What  woman  will  not  pity 
her?  Young,  fatally  ignorant,  perfectly  inexperienced, 
never  having  been  permitted  even  to  read  of  life,  fitted 
only  for  a  butterfly  existence,  she  found  herself  in  the 
most  difficult  of  all  situations,  with  no  one  at  hand  who 
could  guide  or  cheer  her.  She  was  by  no  means  well. 
She  was  desperately  lonely.  Her  mind  was  in  a  highly 
morbid  condition;  and  she  was  impelled  persistently  to 
avoid  the  one  person  who  might,  through  love  and  ten- 
derness, have  made  everything  bearable: — her  husband. 
But  poor  Van  Studdiford  she  tormented  till  he  was  nearly 

52 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


as  wretched  as  herself;  and  finally  her  behavior  was 
followed  by  unexpected  consequences.  Miss  Van  Stud- 
diford  watched  the  tempers  and  petulances  toward  her 
adored  brother  first  with  amazement,  and  then  with  an 
indignation  that  would  not  be  suppressed.  How  should 
an  unmarried  woman  of  forty  know  what  her  sister- 
in-law  of  eighteen  was  undergoing?  Driven,  finally, 
beyond  her  self-control,  the  poor  woman  one  day  remon- 
strated strongly  with  Virginia  on  her  state  of  temper. 
The  result  was  a  quarrel  that  sent  Virginia  to  bed  for 
three  days,  and  made  Charles  so  furious,  not  with  his 
blamable  wife,  but  with  his  devoted  (but  red-haired) 
sister,  that  poor  Mary,  her  heart  turned  to  lead  within 
her,  packed  her  modest  wardrobe  and  set  off  to  Denver, 
to  the  refuge  offered  by  a  hospitable  cousin. 

Probably  Virginia  never  regretted  the  consequences 
of  that  unpleasantness.  It  was  too  much  of  a  relief  to 
be  freed  from  Miss  Van  Studdiford's  gaunt  and  silent 
presence  for  her  to  see  her  great  selfishness  in  its  true 
light.  But,  though  poor  Miss  Mary  could  not  be  called 
good  company,  she  had  still  been  more  than  nothing:  a 
little  better  than  nobody  at  all.  In  her  least  vacant 
moods  at  table,  over  afternoon  tea  at  dusk,  she  had  been 
at  least  a  figure  to  talk  at ; — and  now  even  she  was  lost. 

Never  before  had  Virginia  Merrill  dreamed  of  that 
which  now  befell  her:  the  dreary  misery  that  lonely  ill- 
health  can  bring.  She  had  never  thought  of  such  an 
unhappiness  except  in  connection  with  the  very  old  or 
the  lower-class  poor.  But  now  she  knew  it  for  her  own. 
Her  Mother  was  away  from  her  almost  all  the  time,  trying 

53 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


the  effects  of  various  American  springs  on  John  Mer- 
rill's failing  body  and  fallen  brain: — a  quest  serving  to 
preserve  the  shred  of  false  hope  in  both  of  them.  The 
town  house  had  at  last  been  rented.  Virginia's  former 
companions  were  all  in  the  midst  of  their  first  "  season  " ; 
and  which  of  them  would  have  cared  to  leave  her  gayety 
to  pay  a  visit  to  a  prisoner  in  a  dull  country  town,  without 
friends,  and  without  energy  to  make  them  ?  Alas !  Vir- 
ginia knew  very  well  what  answer  she  should  herself  have 
given  in  like  case.  Moreover,  had  anyone  actually  offered 
to  come  to  her,  Virginia  would  probably  have  excused 
herself  from  hostess-ship ;  for  she  bitterly  resented,  was 
bitterly  ashamed  of,  her  appearance.  It  was  this  that 
caused  her  to  frustrate  every  kindly  attempt  toward  com- 
panionship on  the  part  of  the  Grangeford  women,  many 
of  whom  tried  hard  to  do  her  little  kindnesses,  or  offered 
to  come  and  sit  with  her  in  the  afternoon.  But  these  nat- 
ural, all-comprehending  Mothers,  never  dreaming  of  Mrs. 
Van  Studdiford's  state  of  mind,  resented  the  repulses  to 
their  good-nature,  never  understanding  that  they  came 
entirely  through  shyness,  not  the  haughty  pride  always 
ascribed  to  her.  For  Virginia  had  had  none  of  that  true 
experience  with  the  broad,  genial  world  that  gives  smile 
for  smile,  and  finds  a  rule  for  every  situation.  And  it 
seemed  wholly  impossible  that  she  should  let  any  of  these 
aggressive  strangers  into  her  pitiable  existence. 

Three  only  refuges,  through  that  dreary  winter,  the 
undeveloped  wife  and  mother  had :  Marion  Hunt,  Doctor 
Hollis,  and  her  music.  Marion,  indeed,  came  to  be  her 
good  angel,  fighting  her  battles  without,  giving  her  real 

54 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


affection  and  sympathy  within.  For  Marion  cared  gen- 
uinely for  her  former  schoolmate,  and  sacrificed  many  a 
pleasure  of  her  own,  that  winter,  in  order  to  spend  long 
afternoons  in  the  desolate  house  on  the  hill.  Mrs.  Hunt 
also  performed  many  tasks  that  an  absent  Mother  longed 
to  be  about:  tried  to  comfort  the  child  a  little  out  of 
her  own  experience,  and  told  fascinating  truths  of  the 
deep  joy  to  come. 

Doctor  HoUis,  a  bluff,  hearty  little  man,  with  a  spot 
in  his  heart  as  tender  as  any  girl's,  came  often  to  see  his 
young  patient,  who  clung  to  him  with  pathetic  faith,  as  one 
who  knew  all  that  she  did  not;  and  made  his  cheering 
words  her  gospel.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  good  doctor  was 
needed  more  than  once  that  winter  in  the  millionaire's 
house ;  for  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  proved  herself  very  del- 
icate; and  nerves,  mind  and  body  were  taxed  to  their 
uttermost.  But  Doctor  HoUis  was  confident  of  carry- 
ing her  through;  and  their  joint  faith  was  to  win  the 
battle. 

Lastly,  Music,  her  solitary  recreation,  carried  her 
through  many  of  the  empty  hours ;  but  it  was  not,  perhaps, 
the  best  thing  that  could  have  been  devised  for  her  mind. 
She  fed  herself  upon  Chopin,  the  Prince  of  Melancholy ; 
and  she  could  play  well  enough  to  extract  all  the  morbid 
beauty  of  the  etudes,  the  nocturnes,  the  ballades  and  the 
scherzos.  During  the  morning  hours  she  was  so  con- 
stantly at  the  piano  that  her  progress  in  technique,  in 
breadth  and  ease  of  interpretation,  was  astonishing.  But 
she  did  not  notice  this,  for  she  was  playing  to  her  own 
mind,  by  melancholy  striving  to  free  it  from  melancholy. 

55 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


If,  during  the  winter  months,  three  helps  were  given 
Virginia,  she  had  also,  beside  negative  discomforts,  one 
great  trial.  This  was  her  husband;  for  whom  she  felt 
that  unreasoning  and  unnatural  dislike  that  sometimes 
overcomes  young  wives  in  the  early  period  of  married  life. 
Poor  Charles  was  quite  unconscious  of  any  fault.  How 
should  he  be  aware  that  merely  his  bald  head,  his  florid 
face,  his  habit  of  jingling  keys  and  change  in  his  pockets, 
his  enjoyment  of  his  dinner,  his  taste  for  checked  vests, 
were  all  so  many  sharp  little  files  that  grated  daily  on 
his  wife's  nerves  ?  He  did  his  best  to  be  forbearing  with 
Virginia.  Nay,  he  tried  to  be  very  tender.  But  more  than 
once  he  found  himself  going  to  Hollis  to  make  sure  that 
her  mind  was  in  an  unnatural  condition,  so  wretched  was 
he  made  by  her  unpleasant  caprices.  Long  he  persisted 
in  his  cheerfulness,  and  held  his  temper  through  scenes 
that  few  men  could  have  endured  stoically.  But,  in  the 
end,  his  patience  broke.  He  found  her,  one  night,  eating 
starch  from  a  paper  package  that  she  must  have  obtained 
secretly; — for  she  had  been  strictly  forbidden  to  indulge 
this  craving.  Angry,  and  a  little  disgusted  with  her,  he 
picked  up  the  bag  and  threw  it  out  the  window.  Then, 
when  she  began  to  cry,  with  the  long,  whining  wail  that 
is  the  accompaniment  of  weakness,  he  turned  upon  her 
and  swore  her  into  frightened  silence. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  the  worst.  Spring  was 
coming,  rapidly ;  but  Virginia  and  her  husband  found  no 
joy  in  it  this  year.  Looking  back  a  twelvemonth  both 
wondered,  drearily,  how  such  changes  could  be.  They 
quarreled  incessantly:  he  being  the  more  unreasonable, 

56 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


because  he  felt  himself  a  cad  for  being  driven  so  far. 
Nor  was  Virginia's  natural  stubbornness  lessened  by  her 
lack  of  strength ;  and  she  sometimes  persisted  in  her  line  of 
irritation  till  even  Lucy,  frightened  by  Van  Studdiford's 
face,  would  plead  with  her  Mistress  to  be  quiet.  When 
the  house  became  impossible,  Charles  took  refuge  in  his 
horses,  and  was  often  to  be  seen  driving  over  the  country 
like  a  madman  behind  his  beautiful,  clean-footed  animals, 
that  endured  his  tempers  silently.  Miserable  Virginia! 
Daily  she  loosened  a  little  of  his  affection  for  her;  and 
daily,  because  of  it,  forbearance,  on  his  part,  grew  more 
difficult.  And  all  the  while  her  heart  was  bleeding;  not 
because  of  any  love  of  hers  for  him,  but  because  she  had 
come  to  value  his  for  her.  Finally,  one  April  day,  an 
impossible  situation  came  to  a  violent  climax.  Goaded 
to  desperation  by  certain  morbidly  hideous  assertions  that 
she  made  concerning  the  future,  Charles  struck  his  wife : 
knocked  her  down,  in  fact,  upon  the  floor  of  her  own 
bedroom. 

For  a  little,  madness  followed.  Then  came  peace. 
Mrs.  Merrill,  summoned  wildly  by  Charles  himself,  ar- 
rived and  took  command  of  the  situation.  Virginia  was 
in  bed,  frightened,  not  too  ill,  and  brought  to  her  senses 
by  the  catastrophe.  Charles,  more  thoroughly  ashamed 
of  himself  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life,  but  showing 
that  shame  only  by  silence  and  sulkiness,  paid  the  great- 
est deference  to  his  Mother-in-law,  but  made  no  effort  to 
see  his  wife.  Two  very  difficult  weeks  went  by.  Then, 
by  degrees,  through  Mrs.  Merrill's  infinite  tact,  things 
slowly  righted  themselves,  and  the  reconciliation  came 
5  57 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


about.  Neither  the  Mother  nor  Charles  for  an  instant 
suspected  the  consequences  of  that  blow  upon  Virginia's 
nature.  How  should  they?  She  never  showed  what 
really  lay  beneath.  But  out  of  that  one,  mad  moment, 
grew  something  that  could  never  be  uprooted :  not  hatred, 
perhaps,  but  a  deepening  bitterness,  that  was,  in  time,  to 
make  possible  dire  things.  For  that  blow  struck  from  her 
heart  certain  words  of  the  marriage  service.  After  it, 
Virginia  ceased  to  honor  her  husband.  An  indelible  im- 
print had  been  made  upon  her  mind.  Childish  things 
dropped  away.  Suddenly  she  was  a  woman;  and  sud- 
denly she  had  begun  to  understand  the  true  consequence 
of  a  loveless  marriage. 

As  the  spring  ripened  and  grew  into  May,  and  the 
world  was  rebeautified,  Mrs.  Merrill  still  lingered  at 
Grangeford.  She  did  not  leave  it,  indeed,  until  some  days 
after  a  telegram  had  been  sent  from  the  Van  Studdiford^ 
house  to  poor  John  Merrill,  in  Pass  Christian,  where  his 
nurse  read  it  to  him : 

"  Miss  Caroline  Van  Studdiford  sends  love  to  her 
Grandfather.    Virginia  very  comfortable." 


58 


CHAPTER  IV 

In  the  summer  season,  the  tennis  court  of  the  Van 
Studdiford  place  had,  for  many  years,  been  a  rendezvous 
for  the  young  people  of  Grangeford.  This  year,  however, 
owing  to  the  illness  of  the  new  Mistress  of  the  house,  a 
substitute  had  been  found  in  the  grounds  of  Madam 
Famsworth,  and  those  who  had  not  taken  to  the  newly 
omnipotent  golf,  went  there.  Nevertheless  the  Van  Stud- 
diford court  had  been  marked,  as  usual,  in  May,  and  the 
grass  rolled  and  cared  for  through  the  summer,  till  by 
now,  on  the  tenth  of  August,  it  was  in  perfect  condition. 

The  day  was  not  extravagantly  hot.  A  slight  breeze 
from  the  east  blew  sufficient  coolness  through  the  long 
bars  of  yellow  light  that  fell  athwart  the  lawn,  the  court, 
the  copse  of  brilliant,  flowering  shrubs,  and,  beyond  that, 
through  the  little  orchard,  down  the  steep  bank  to  where 
the  lazily  gliding  river  terminated  the  place.  At  this  hour 
— half  past  three  in  the  afternoon,  the  grounds  were  echo- 
ing to  the  calls  of  the  players,  two  in  number : — "  Fifteen 
love !  "— "  Thirty  love !  "— "  Thirty-fifteen  I  "—and  then, 
after  several  plays, — "  Deuce !  "  given  sometimes  in  a 
girl's  voice,  sometimes  in  a  man's  clear  tenor.  They  were 
well  matched,  those  two;  for  the  numbers  followed  each 
other  regularly,  and  the  games  were  nearly  always  won 
only  after  protracted  vantages,  in  and  out. 

59 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Philip  Atkinson,  in  duck  trousers  and  negligee  shirt, 
and  Marion  Hunt,  in  corresponding  skirt  and  a  stiffer 
shirt-waist,  had  been  playing  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  and 
were  just  beginning  the  third,  crucial  set.  Marion  looked 
and  felt  at  her  best  in  out-door  games.  She  played  every 
one  of  them  well.  She  was  light  on  her  feet,  quick  in  all 
her  movements,  and,  when  her  face  was  flushed  and  her 
hair  more  or  less  in  disorder,  she  lost  the  slightly  ordinary 
look  that  had  always  condemned  her  in  Atkinson's  eyes. 

They  were  engrossed  in  the  score ;  and  neither  noticed 
the  figure  that  presently  appeared  upon  the  side  veranda 
nearest  the  court,  stood  there  for  a  moment,  looking  on, 
and  then  moved  slowly  down  the  steps  and  across  the 
grass,  to  a  spot  fifty  feet  from  the  net,  where  three  or 
four  wicker  chairs  and  a  rustic  table  stood  under  a  clump 
of  white  birch  trees. 

It  was  Virginia  who  had  come  out :  Virginia,  an  ex- 
quisite picture  in  her  voluminous  white  gown,  a  mass 
of  shirrings  and  Valenciennes  lace,  with  a  great  Leghorn 
hat,  from  which  drooped  clusters  of  yellow  roses  and 
bilack  velvet  ribbon,  tilted  over  her  forehead,  a  yellow 
work-bag  hung  upon  her  arm :  the  whole  costume,  uncon- 
sciously worn,  giving  her  a  quaint  resemblance  to  some 
olden-time  Gainsborough  lady.  While  she  advanced,  leis- 
urely, she  watched  the  game ;  and  there  was  a  little  smile 
round  her  lips: — a  smile  of  happiness  for  Marion  who 
was  happy,  and  another  of  peace  for  herself.  For  the  past 
two  months  had  changed  the  world  again  for  Virginia 
Van  Studdiford. 

As  she  seated  herself  in  one  of  the  comfortable  chairs, 
60 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


the  front  gate  clicked,  and  she  turned  to  see  the  nurse 
wheeling  her  baby  up  the  walk  toward  the  side  veranda. 

"  Bring  Caroline  to  me,  Meta,"  she  called.  And,  obe- 
diently, the  woman  wheeled  the  pretty  carriage  toward  her, 
across  the  grass,  saying,  in  a  whisper,  as  she  approached : 

"  She's  asleep.  Ma'am." 

Virginia  rose,  moved  forward  a  little,  and  peeped 
under  the  hood  to  gaze  at  the  baby's  plump,  rosy  little 
face,  hot  with  slumber.  She  looked  up,  smiling,  tenderly, 
and  spoke  to  the  nurse: 

"  Leave  her  here,  please,  with  me.  I'll  bring  her  in 
when  she  wakes  up." 

"  She  isn't  to  have  her  next  bottle  till  five.  She's  just 
fell  asleep  over  it,  and  I  took  it  out  of  the  carriage  so  she'd 
not  wet  her  cloak." 

"  Very  well,  Meta.  I'll  bring  her  in  at  five  if  she 
doesn't  wake  up  before  that." 

Virginia  wheeled  the  carriage  to  her  chair,  turning  the 
hood  to  the  players,  that  their  calls  might  not  disturb 
the  baby's  sleep.  Then  she  settled  back  herself,  looked  at 
her  work-bag,  but  did  not  take  out  its  contents,  preferring 
lazily  to  watch  Atkinson's  graceful  form  as  it  moved, 
swiftly,  to  and  fro  over  the  court  before  her.  Ah !  What 
a  wonderful  thing  it  was  just  to  be  alive ! 

Virginia  Merrill  had  been  married  a  few  days  more 
than  fourteen  months.  But  the  young  woman  who  leaned 
back  in  the  rustic  chair  on  the  grass  before  the  tennis- 
court,  was  ten  years  older,  mentally  and  physically,  than 
the  child  that  had  married  Charles  Van  Studdiford,  on  the 
fourth  day  of  June,  eighteen  hundred  and  ninety-five.    In 

6i 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


that  short  period  she  had  gone  through  the  iron  schooling 
of  half  a  lifetime.  Just  at  present  she  was  not  thinking 
of  it.  She  had  emerged  from  her  recent  depths,  and  it  was 
not  now  her  habit  to  indulge  in  introspection.  That,  too, 
was  the  result  of  the  schooling.  But,  oh !  after  the  first, 
inevitable  rending  of  the  veil,  after  her  first,  frightened 
glance  into  that  unspeakable  gulf  whence  human  life  and 
experience  must  spring,  through  what  unbeautiful  phases 
she  had  passed!  some  behind  a  mask  of  bitterly  simu- 
lated indifllerence,  some  that  even  her  own  pride  was 
powerless  to  keep  from  the  eyes  of  those  close  to  her.  She 
had  known  terror,  disgust,  helplessness,  loneliness,  ill- 
health,  worst  of  all,  utter  dependence  upon  a  man  whom 
she  believed  she  hated:  whom  she  had  tried  to  hate: 
whom,  just  now,  she  tolerated  for  the  sake  of  her  child. 
That  child,  the  little,  clinging,  sweet-faced  baby-thing, 
that  loved  her  arms,  had  become  her  anchorage.  For  the 
sake  of  it,  for  her  almighty  love  of  it,  she  knew  that  she 
could,  and  would,  bear  infinite  burdens.  Above  all  else, 
Virginia  was  a  Mother.  By  this,  her  selfishness  had  been 
conquered.  She  knew,  now,  why  people  persist  in  saying 
that  marriage  is  good.  She  had  not  known  the  beautiful 
oneness  of  love  with  a  strong,  tender  man.  But  she  had 
had  roused  in  her  the  fierce,  adoring,  protective  devotion 
for  a  child.  Its  tiny,  helpless,  aimless  hand  had  smoothed 
out  the  furrows  that  were  becoming  habitual  to  her  brow. 
It  had  brought  a  new  light  into  the  brown  eyes  that  had 
grown  all  but  hard.  It  had  surrounded  the  well  of  bitter- 
ness in  her  heart  with  the  delicate  ferns  and  starry  flowers 
of  love  and  pity.     But  more  than  this  it  could  not  do.     It 

62 


THAT  CHILD,  THE  LITTLE,   CLINGING,   SWEET-FACED 
BABY-THING  .  ,  .  HAD   BECOME   HER  ANCHORAGE. 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


could  not  fill  that  well,  nor  wholly  cover  it.  Virginia  had 
known  real  torment  of  mind  and  body ;  and  traces  of  both 
were  inevitably  left.  But  of  all  these  things  she  would 
not,  now,  think  deeply.  Many  of  them  were  matters  ever 
present  in  her  inner  consciousness.  The  rest,  consciously 
or  not,  she  put  aside,  determining  to  live  only  day  by  day ; 
perhaps,  if  possible,  hour  by  hour. 

The  present  was  agreeable  enough.  Atkinson  had  re- 
turned again  from  his  wanderings,  and  was  living  in  his 
cousin's  house  as  of  old,  in  order  to  be  near  his  work. 
Marion  Hunt  now  never  refused  an  invitation  from  her 
friend ;  and  Virginia  had,  long  ago,  smilingly  divined  the 
reason.  It  pleased  her  to  dwell  on  this  situation;  and, 
whenever  it  was  possible,  she  planned  openings  for  an  ex- 
pected denouement.  Philip  and  Marion,  married,  settled 
nearby,  to  be  constant  companions  of  her  Grangeford  life, 
was  a  thought  almost  as  pleasant  to  her  as  to  Marion. — 
Nay,  scarcely  that,  perhaps;  but  delightful,  at  any  rate. 
And  there  was  ground  for  the  strongest  expectations. 
Philip  was,  unquestionably,  devoted.  For  some  weeks, 
now,  Grangeford  had  been  busily  watching  what  it  was 
pleased  to  call  "  the  Courtship."  And  many  women  and 
more  men  than  one  would  have  been  thrown  into  utter 
amazement  had  Atkinson's  real  mind  been  made  known. 
He  was  amusing  himself  in  an  habitual  way.  As  an  act- 
ual matter  of  fact,  he  had  no  feeling  whatever  for  Marion, 
save  as  rather  a  sensible  and  agreeable  old  maid,  who  was 
light  on  her  feet,  and  could  talk  well  enough  to  make  a 
dull  hour  pass  acceptably.  The  dullness  of  Grangeford 
was  his  only  reason  for  tolerating  her  for  five  minutes. 

63 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


And,  even  at  this  period,  he  felt  for  her  not  half  the  ad- 
miration that  he  had  for  his  cousin's  wife.  Poor  Marion ! 
How  was  it  that  she  never  perceived  that  her  appearance, 
in  not  too  well-made  clothes,  cut  but  a  sorry  figure  beside 
Virginia,  who  had  the  three  necessities  for  dress :  money, 
taste  and  that  peculiar  beauty  of  person  that  caused  her 
clothes  to  set  her  off  as  delicate  ferns  enhance  a  rose. 

But,  as  the  last  ball  fell,  Virginia  herself  was  planning 
Marion's  trousseau.  She  was  roused  from  her  reverie 
by  Philip's  cry  of :  "  Game  and  set !  "  and,  at  the  same 
moment,  Van  Studdiford  appeared  at  the  side  door  with 
Carson,  who  was  carrying  a  great  bowl  of  claret  cup, 
Charles  himself  bearing  two  silver  dishes  of  sandwiches 
and  cakes. 

Virginia  rose  and  wheeled  the  still  sleeping  baby  a 
little  farther  to  one  side.  The  players  came  up  imme- 
diately, Marion  fastening  her  collar,  Philip  rolling  down 
his  sleeves;  while  Van  Studdiford  superintended  the  ar- 
rangement of  table  and  chairs.  In  a  moment  or  two  Car- 
son reappeared  with  glasses ;  and,  while  his  wife  reseated 
herself,  Charles  served  the  cup,  which  he  had  himself 
compounded. 

"  Oh !  I  could  drink  all  there  is  in  the  bowl,  and  cry 
for  more ! "  exclaimed  Marion,  fanning  herself  violently 
with  her  hat. 

"  My  dear  lady,  there  is  half  a  pint  of  champagne 
brandy  in  it.  Please  wait  till  I  order  the  landeau,"  ex- 
claimed Van  Studdiford,  rousing  a  general  laugh, 

Marion  rapidly  disposed  of  two  glasses ;  whereby  her 
scarlet  face  grew  redder  still.    Virginia,  scarcely  thirsty, 

64 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


sat  sipping  hers  daintily,  feeling,  perhaps,  that  Atkinson's 
eyes  were  busy. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Philip  was  looking  slowly  from 
Marion's  flaming  face  to  Virginia's  fair,  pale  complexion, 
under  the  great  hat ; — and  poor  Marion's  cause  was  fur- 
ther lost  than  ever.  Atkinson  himself,  though  he  had  been 
playing  an  hour  and  a  half,  scarcely  seemed  hot.  He 
was  of  the  type  that  is  never  in  any  mood  or  state  that 
does  not  become  him.  It  was  really  a  matter  of  instinct, 
a  part  of  his  character,  rather  than  the  result  of  any 
effort  or  rule  of  living.  At  this  moment,  indeed,  he  was 
pleasantly  aware  of  the  fact  that,  as  he  contrasted  Marion 
with  Virginia,  so  Virginia  was  contrasting  Van  Studdi- 
ford  with  him.  But  he  did  not  guess  that  Virginia  was 
doing  her  best  to  find  something  to  the  advantage  of 
Charles.  He  would  have  known,  at  once,  that  she  must 
fail.  This  sort  of  quest  was  certainly  pathetically  vain. 
For  Charles'  cheeks  were  more  flushed  with  the  mere 
effort  of  breathing  than  were  Philip's  after  thirty  games 
of  tennis.  And  Philip  was  more  immaculate,  in  spite  of 
all  his  exercise,  than  Charles  after  a  lazy  afternoon 
within  doors.  But  so  long  as  youth  persists  in  judg- 
ments by  appearance,  so  long  will  the  world  gang  all 
agley. 

"  What  a  dull  old  place  Grangeford  is !  "  murmured 
Atkinson,  throwing  down  his  empty  glass,  and  reaching 
for  a  sandwich.  "  Absolutely  nothing  in  the  way  of 
amusement.  Nowhere  to  go.  Bed  at  nine  o'clock  every 
night,  out  of  sheer  desperation." 

"  I'm  used  to  it,"  returned  Marion,  contentedly.  "  And 
65 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


really,  we  have  about  as  much  amusement  as  anyone, 
in  summer." 

"  For  instance  ?  "  asked  Virginia. 

"  Well — the  golf  club  hops.  And  this  Saturday  there's 
a  picnic."  Marion  was  delighted  that  the  conversation 
should  be  turned  to  it.  "  You're  asked,  of  course  ? — 
Lawrence  Burnwell's,  you  know." 

"  Yes.  I  remember.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  can  leave  the 
baby,"  said  Virginia,  tentatively,  with  a  quick  glance  at 
Qiarles,  who  sat  perfectly  stolid,  without  the  slightest 
interest  in  his  face.  "  I  want  to  go,"  she  remarked, 
suddenly. 

"  Surely  you  can — ?"  Atkinson  spoke  softly,  from  a 
point  of  vantage  near  Virginia's  feet,  "  Let  me  drive  you 
out  to  the  Lake." 

"  Certainly  not !  "  returned  Virginia,  laughing.  "  Old 
married  people  shall  not  monopolize  popular  bachelors. 
/  shall  be  with  Major  and  Mrs.  Pattison,  probably.  But 
you,  Philip,  must  take  Marion." 

"  I  wanted  Virginia  to  go  with  me  out  to  the  horse 
farm  on  Saturday,"  broke  in  Van  Studdiford,  still  with 
an  expressionless  face.  "  We're  breaking  a  horse  to  side- 
saddle for  her,  and  I  want  her  to  see  him.  That's  twenty- 
four  miles  in  all :  enough  for  one  day. — Anyway,  picnics ! 
Ugh ! — Damned  nonsense !  " 

The  conversation  died.  Nobody  cared  or  dared  to 
resurrect  it.  Philip,  however,  was  genuinely  angry,  Mar- 
ion Hunt!  Marion  Hunt!  Why  must  she  be  forever 
flung  at  his  head,  as  if  his  were  a  proprietary  interest? 
And  she  was  so  complacent  herself!     Really,  lately  she 

66 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


had  thrown  herself  at  him.  He  should  stop  it,  very  soon. 
And  Marion,  who  was  watching  him  closely,  guessed 
his  state  of  mind,  if  she  did  not  read  his  thoughts ;  and 
thereby  her  memory  of  this  day,  and  her  hope  for  the  pic- 
nic, were  spoiled  for  good.  But  Virginia,  poor  Virginia, 
was  more  unhappy  than  either  of  them.  Childish  as  it 
was,  now  that  the  picnic  was  denied  her  she  longed  for 
it.  Charles  himself  cared  for  nothing  in  the  whole  world 
but  horses;  and,  therefore,  she  must  always  be  forced 
to  waste  her  few  pleasure-hours  upon  them.  She  stared 
at  her  husband  angrily;  but  he  was  stretched  comfort- 
ably in  a  chaise  longue,  head  thrown  back,  short  mus- 
tache bristling,  an  unlighted  cigar  in  his  hand.  He  was 
the  only  untroubled  one  of  the  four.  Perfectly  aware 
of  the  unpleasantness  he  had  caused,  he  was  still  indif- 
ferent to  it.  In  fact,  during  the  last  few  weeks,  all  the 
brute  determination  in  Van  Studdiford's  character,  (and 
there  was  much  of  it),  had  risen  in  him  fiercely;  and  he 
had  sworn  to  himself  that  he  would  break  his  wife  to 
absolute  obedience,  or  break  himself  in  the  attempt.  He 
had  done  it  before  with  a  woman.  But  he  had  begun  to 
forget  the  difference  in  Virginia's  breeding  from  that  of 
the  others  he  had  known. 

The  decidedly  uncomfortable  silence  had  lasted  long 
enough.  Marion  broke  it  by  springing  to  her  feet,  with 
the  relieving  and  expected: 

"  Well, — I  must  go.    It's  nearly  five." 

Atkinson's  expression  changed.  There  was  a  light 
of  rebellious  anger  in  his  eyes.  Virginia,  however,  glanced 
at  him  mischievously. 

67 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  I'm  so  sorry,  Marion.  It's  very  early.  But  if  you 
must  go  of  course  Philip——" 

"  I'll  take  you  home,  Miss  Marion,"  broke  in  Van 
Studdiford,  rising  suddenly.  "  I  ordered  Meteor  and  the 
runabout  to  be  here  at  five.  I'll  go  and  hurry  them  up." 
And  he  strode  off  toward  the  stables. 

For  just  one  second,  Marion's  face  had  fallen.  But 
she  recovered  herself,  swiftly,  as  Philip  rose,  all  good- 
nature now.  "  What  a  dog  Charles  is !  Horses  and — the 
ladies.  One  follows  the  other,  doesn't  it  ?  He  has  taken 
two  pleasures  from  me  to-day  by  means  of  his  animals." 

"  Nonsense !  You  know  you're  relieved  not  to  take 
that  long  walk  with  me."  There  was  a  betraying  rise 
of  inflection  on  the  last  word;  but  Philip  refused  to  ac- 
cept her  challenge  as  she  wished.  His  answer,  given  in 
an  over-elaborate  manner :  "  I  assure  you  I  am  furious 
with  Charles,"  would  have  caused  any  woman  more 
chagrin  than  satisfaction. 

It  was  a  relief  to  all  three  when  the  pat-pat-pat  of 
hoofs  on  the  gravel  announced  Charles'  approach;  and 
as  Marion,  her  hat  pinned  unsteadily  to  her  roughened 
hair,  started  slowly  toward  the  drive  with  Philip  beside 
her,  Virginia  sat  back  again  in  her  chair,  and  looked  laz- 
ily after  them.  Two  minutes  later  the  runabout  was 
speeding  up  the  James  Road,  and  Atkinson  came  back  to 
the  scene  of  the  feast,  to  find  Virginia  bending  over 
the  carriage  in  which  her  baby  still  slept.  As  he  ap- 
proached, she  held  up  one  finger,  smiling  at  him,  the 
while,  till  she  had  completed  the  unconscious  beauty  of 
the  picture. 

68 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  Caroline's  having  such  a  long  nap,"  she  whispered. 
"  It's  time  to  take  her  in,  but  sleeping  is  better  for  her 
than  eating,  I  think," 

"  She  is  adorable !  "  And  Atkinson's  thought  was  not 
of  the  baby.  He  replied,  however,  only  with  a  smile  as 
she  again  wheeled  the  carriage  out  of  the  way,  and,  re- 
turning to  her  former  place,  sat  down  and  looked  up  at 
the  graceful  figure  before  her. 

"  Will  you  sit  here  with  me  till  she  wakes  ?  Thank 
you.  That's  nice.  Now,  Philip,  I'm  going  to  scold. 
Why  in  the  world  do  you  torment  poor  Marion  so  ?  You 
make  her  very  unhappy.  You  should  never  have  asked 
to  drive  me  out  to  the  picnic,  even  though  Charles 
wouldn't  offer.  Of  course,  you  want  to  go  with  Marion. 
You're  supposed  to !  " 

For  a  moment  he  stared  at  her,  from  the  seat  he  had 
chosen.  But,  after  the  most  scrutinizing  look,  he  could 
not  deny  to  himself  that  she  spoke  in  absolute  good 
faith. 

"  I  asked  you  to  let  me  drive  you  to  the  Lake  because 
I  wanted  to  take  you — only  you,"  he  answered,  simply. 

"  But,  Philip,  how  ridiculous !  I  don't  in  the  least 
count.    I  am  married.    You  and  Marion " 

"  Stop,  please ! — My  dear  cousin  Virginia,  Miss  Hunt 
is  no  doubt  a  very  charming  girl.  But,  personally,  I 
care  less  for  Miss  Hunt  than  I  do  for  the  bow  on  the 
baby's  carriage." 

Virginia  said  not  a  word.  His  tone  made  surprise  im- 
possible. It  suddenly  came  to  her  that  she  had  all  along 
understood  just  how  he  felt  toward  Marion.    He,  hav- 

69 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


ing  accomplished  what  he  wished,  turned  his  chair  a 
little  and  lay  back  in  it,  smiling  lazily,  and  lcx)king 
off  across  the  court  and  copse  to  the  orchard  beyond. 
Virginia  watched  him.  Her  thoughts  flew  far.  And  sud- 
denly, without  in  the  least  reflecting  on  the  possible  effect 
of  her  words,  she  said :  "  It  seems  to  me,  Philip,  that  a 
woman  might  easily  fall  very,  very  much  in  love  with 
you." 

He  turned,  sharply.  "  What  in  the  world  do  you 
mean  ? — What  have  they " 

Happily  for  him,  his  next  words  were  drowned  in  a 
long  wail  from  little  Miss  Caroline,  who  had  discov- 
ered, in  the  midst  of  her  dreams,  that  bottle-time  had 
come.  Virginia,  forgetting  everything  else,  flew  to  the 
carriage. 

For  two  or  three  minutes  she  busied  herself  about  the 
baby,  crooning  to  her,  in  that  soothing,  incomprehensible 
language  that  comes  instinctively  to  Mothers.  Then, 
when  the  wail  was  stilled  a  little,  Virginia  lifted  the  lacy 
bundle  in  her  arms,  at  the  same  moment  smiling  over  her 
shoulder  at  Atkinson,  who  had  risen.  "  Philip,  play 
nurse,  will  you  ?  "  she  said,  laughing.  "  Do  wheel  the 
carriage  to  the  veranda  steps  for  me." 

Laughing  himself,  and  mightily  relieved  at  heart  at 
his  escape  from  a  mistake  that  he  should  bitterly  have 
regretted,  he  did  as  she  asked.  As  they  reached  the  steps, 
he  did  still  more.  Virginia's  arms  were  full,  and,  her  long, 
floating  gown  being  in  the  way,  she  paused,  uncertainly, 
before  the  first  of  the  three  steps.  Without  a  word  he 
took  the  baby  from  her,  and  himself  carried  it  up  and 

70 


•THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


into  the  house,  so  gently,  so  comfortably,  that  the  fretful 
child  did  not  utter  a  sound  of  displeasure.  Virginia 
watched  him,  marvelling.  Van  Studdiford  could  never 
have  done  it: — would  never  have  attempted  it.  Truly, 
a  wonderful  cousin  was  Philip ! 


71 


CHAPTER  V 

That  year,  in  Grangeford,  summer  lingered  over 
Virginia.  As  the  golden  days  slid  imperceptibly  along, 
it  seemed  to  her  that  time  passed  as  usual;  but  looking 
back,  afterward,  upon  this  period,  she  perceived  that  it 
had  been  granted  to  her  as  a  merciful  respite.  The  long 
weeks  that  enwrapped  her  with  sunlight,  instilled  strength 
and  the  power  of  resistance  into  her  nature,  and  prepared 
her,  in  some  slight  measure,  for  the  struggle,  the  pain, 
the  infinite  sorrowing  of  the  future.  And  although  she 
did  not,  even  for  a  day,  leave  Grangeford,  it  being  the 
first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  not  gone  East  for  the 
summer,  she  found  that  just  here,  at  home,  she  was  learn- 
ing more  of  the  real  joys  of  country  life,  the  pretty  secrets 
of  field  and  wood  and  stream,  than  all  the  months  at  Bar 
Harbor  and  Narragansett  and  Manchester-by-the-sea  had 
ever  taught  her.  She  was  living  with  and  for  her  baby. 
Each  day  the  little  image  was  inshrined  more  beauti- 
fully in  her  heart.  Each  day  the  tiny  creature  became 
more  beloved.  And  her  husband  watched  her  with  grow- 
ing satisfaction  as  she  bathed  it,  dressed  it,  walked  with 
it,  or  hung  over  its  crib  at  night.  He  saw  that,  at  length, 
through  the  child,  Virginia  would  come  to  him.  He  lost 
his  crude  desire  to  break  her  will  by  force.  And  although 
young  babies  were  a  mystery,  almost  a  terror  to  him,  still 
he  was  pleased  with  his  daughter  for  aiding  his  cause; 

72 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


and  she  held  a  genuine,  though  slightly  undefined,  place 
in  his  heart. 

August  passed  silently  through  the  great  gate  of  Past 
Time;  and  September  flashed  in,  crowned  with  red  and 
golden  fruits,  girdled  with  purple  and  white  grapes,  and 
robed  in  sheaves  of  yellow  grain.  Sometimes,  now,  the 
days  were  fiercely  hot ;  but  soon  there  lay,  hidden  in  de- 
ceiving sunshine,  a  little,  frosty  tang.  Virginia,  driving 
aimlessly  about  the  country  in  her  low  phaeton,  nurse  and 
baby  beside  her,  read,  for  the  first  time,  with  seeing  eyes, 
the  glory  of  autumn,  and  marvelled  at  the  wonder  of  the 
woods.  And  all  the  time  she  was  facing,  tranquilly,  al- 
most with  joy,  the  prospect  of  winter  in  Grangeford. 

In  these  days  Virginia  grew  beautiful  with  more  than 
the  mere  pink-and-whiteness  of  extreme  youth.  Her 
simple  mode  of  life,  the  natural  love  she  felt,  her  joy  in  the 
open  air,  and,  more  than  all,  her  increasing  contentment, 
were  writing  themselves  upon  her  face,  Atkinson,  and 
even  Van  Studdiford,  gazed  at  her  from  time  to  time  in 
wonder,  so  restful  was  her  presence,  so  different  she  from 
her  younger  self.  Never,  perhaps,  had  miracle  of  Mother- 
hood been  more  beautifully  wrought ;  for  selfish,  frivolous, 
pretty  Virginia  had  been  wholly  transformed  through  the 
presence  of  her  child. 

The  person  to  whom  this  change  was  most  apparent 
and  most  delightful,  was  Virginia's  own  Mother.  In  Oc- 
tober Mrs.  Merrill  came  to  Grangeford  for  ten  days,  to 
recuperate  a  little  from  a  difficult  summer,  and  to  prepare 
for  a  winter  more  difficult  yet.  Alas,  poor  woman !  added 
years  were  scarcely  bringing  added  rest.  The  great, 
6  73 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Michigan  Avenue  house  had  again  been  rented ;  and  John 
Merrill,  (now  almost  as  much  of  a  child  as  his  grand- 
daughter), his  man  nurse  and  his  wife,  were  to  begfin  a 
new  period  of  wandering,  another  search  after  help  which, 
pathetically,  all  of  them,  even  the  invalid  himself,  knew  to 
be  utterly  vain. 

Mrs.  Merrill,  older  by  many  years  than  she  had  been 
on  the  day  of  Virginia's  marriage,  yet  preserving  still,  at 
whatever  cost,  her  charming  presence  and  her  infinite  tact, 
found  herself  a  welcome  guest  in  the  house  of  her  son-in- 
law.  Charles  admired  her  extremely,  and  liked  to  have 
her  at  hand,  though  before  her,  of  all  women,  he  was 
acutely  conscious  of  certain  mistakes  in  his  training. 

It  was  a  very  happy  ten  days  that  Mother  and  daugh- 
ter spent  together.  Mrs.  Merrill,  seeing  Virginia's  new 
peace  of  mind,  forbore  to  disturb  it  by  any  minute  details 
of  her  Father's  condition.  Indeed,  so  far  as  she  could, 
she  tried  herself  to  throw  the  remembrance  of  it  off,  to 
lay  her  burden  down  while  she  rested,  and  to  interest 
herself  wholly  in  her  daughter's  surroundings.  Virginia 
was  moved  to  entertain  a  little  in  her  Mother's  honor: 
giving  a  luncheon  and  a  small  tea  for  her.  And  Grange- 
ford  was  not  backward  in  returning  the  invitations.  The 
two  ladies,  Charles,  and  Philip,  were  even  asked  out  to 
supper  several  times ;  for  the  town  had  long  since  found 
that  none  of  this  family  that  were  accustomed  to  dine  at 
night,  were  in  any  way  to  be  stood  in  awe  of.  Mrs.  Merrill 
who,  a  year  before,  had  forced  herself  to  be  interested  in 
these,  Virginia's  people,  now  found  that  they  would  bear 
interest  of  the  sincere  kind.    There  jvas  about  them  a 

74 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


straightforwardness,  a  dignity,  a  sincerity,  quite  unknown 
among  the  men  and  women  who  had  once  formed  her 
"  set "  in  town.  These  people  did  not  drink.  Not  a  woman 
among  them  had  ever  dreamed  of  smoking.  There  were  no 
flirtations  among  unmatched  husbands  and  wives.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  was  such  a  thing  as  genuine  wit  among 
them.  They  had  also  a  conventionality  of  their  own :  a 
code  almost  as  strict  as,  but  utterly  different  from,  the 
laws  of  fashion  in  great  cities.  Such  as  they  were,  Caro- 
line Merrill,  a  true  gentlewoman  educated  in  a  bad  school, 
liked  them,  but,  more  than  that,  was  glad  that  her  daugh- 
ter's lines  had  fallen  in  their  places. 

There  was  but  one  person  in  Grangeford,  and  he  a 
member  of  Van  Studdi  ford's  own  household,  with  whom 
Mrs.  Merrill  was  not  wholly  pleased,  did  not,  indeed, 
entirely  trust.  This  was  Philip  Atkinson:  Philip,  the 
debonair,  the  polished,  the  charming !  She  said  not  a  word 
on  the  subject  to  anyone,  least  of  all  to  Virginia.  Some- 
times she  even  wondered  at  the  voice  of  her  own  instinct. 
Yet  she  found  herself  watching  him,  for  Virginia's  sake, 
as  only  a  Mother  can.  And  had  his  conduct  toward  her 
daughter,  or  even  Virginia's  toward  him,  ever  flown  the 
smallest  danger-flag  Mrs.  Merrill  would  not  have  scrupled 
to  carry  her  plans  for  change  to  Charles.  But  the  rela- 
tionship between  the  two  bore  infinite  watching.  Vir- 
ginia's attitude  was  too  friendly,  too  transparently  open, 
for  the  faintest  suspicion  to  attach  itself  thereto.  And, 
closely  as  she  looked,  Mrs.  Merrill  never  detected  in  Philip 
a  single  trace  of  what  she  feared.  Yet,  because  she  still 
doubted  Virginia's  secret  feeling  toward  her  husband,  the 

75 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Mother  left  Grangeford  with  one,  tiny  blot  upon  her  hap- 
piness :  a  sense  of  possibilities. 

It  was  the  thirtieth  day  of  October  when  Mrs.  Mer- 
rill departed  to  join  her  husband  at  Hot  Springs.  On 
the  first  of  November  Virginia  was  suddenly  confronted 
with  the  prospect  of  entire  desertion  for  a  few  days. 
Charles  announced  that  he  was  obliged  to  go  West  on 
business :  first  to  Denver,  where  his  sister  was ;  and  then 
on  to  San  Francisco,  for  at  least  five  days,  in  order  to 
examine  certain  papers  belonging  to  a  mine  in  which  he 
had  large  interests.  He  would  probably  be  gone  for  three 
weeks ;  and  gave  his  wife  her  choice  about  accompanying 
him.  With  an  inward  sigh  of  relief,  Virginia  explained 
that  she  could  not  possibly  leave  the  baby.  And  there- 
upon, at  once,  of  his  own  accord,  Philip  prepared  to  go 
to  Chicago,  for  a  little  business  and  rather  more  vacation, 
while  his  cousin  should  be  away,  seizing  the  same  oppor- 
tunity to  visit  his  sister,  Mme.  Dupre,  who  had  taken  an 
apartment  of  her  own  in  the  Dirty  City  for  the  winter, 
and  declared  her  intention  of  reconciling  herself  to  it  as  a 
permanent  residence. 

Philip  left  Grangeford  on  the  third  of  November, 
Charles  on  the  fifth.  And  on  the  latter  morning  Virginia 
stood  in  a  window  of  the  drawing-room,  holding  the  baby 
in  her  arms,  to  wave  her  husband  goodbye  as  the  runabout 
dashed  away  up  the  road.  Then,  with  a  deep  sigh  of 
relief,  she  turned  her  face  indoors,  feeling,  as  she  did  so, 
a  quick  upliftment  of  the  heart.  He  was  not  here. 
Charles  was  not  here !  She  could  walk  suddenly  into  any 
room  in  the  house — ^the  library,  the  smoking-room — and 

76 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


he  would  not  be  before  her,  his  bald  forehead,  his  red 
mustache!  Oh,  exquisite  freedom!  Oh,  miserable  Vir- 
ginia!— most  miserable  in  thy  peace! 

She  carried  the  baby  up  to  the  nursery  for  its  morning 
bath ;  and  it  seemed  to  her,  as  she  went,  that  the  very  at- 
mosphere of  the  house  had  changed.  There  was  a  sodden 
weight  that  was  gone  from  it.  He  was  gone.  And  now, 
had  she  chosen  either  to  think  or  to  examine  herself,  she 
might  have  discovered,  to  a  nicety,  her  feeling  for  him. 
But  she  did  not  think.    She  would  not  examine. 

This  morning  she  herself  gave  the  little  Caroline  her 
bath ;  and  while  she  was  in  the  midst  of  the  pretty  task, 
Marion  Hunt  arrived,  demanding  to  know  if  she  were  not 
miserably  lonely.    At  the  question,  Virginia  laughed. 

"  Why  should  I  be,  please,  Marion  ?  At  this  hour  of 
the  day  I  am  always  alone ;  unless  you  are  good  enough 
to  come  in  to  see  me." ' 

"  Oh,  but  the  sense  that  they  are  gone — Oh,  well,  I'm 
glad  you  don't  mind  it." 

Ah!  If  Marion  only  knew  what  that  sense  of  soli- 
tude meant !  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Marion  herself  was 
the  lonely  one.  This  morning  she  was  willing  enough  to 
confess  that  Grangeford  was  dull.  Nevertheless,  Marion 
was  still  busy  being  sensible.  She  was  always  described 
as  such  a  "  sensible  "  girl ;  and  the  adjective  never  failed 
to  flatter  her.  It  meant  that  she  understood  cooking; 
that  she  could  make  her  own  shirt-waists ;  that  you  could 
trust  her,  on  going  alone  to  Chicago,  to  buy  only  the 
things  she  went  to  buy ;  and  also,  last  and  climactic,  that 
she  never  fell  in  love.    Perhaps,  if  Grangeford  knew  how 

77 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


little  Marion  merited  this  last  opinion,  she  would  never 
have  been  called  sensible  again.  Virginia  knew,  and 
smiled  over  the  matter,  but  never  told  a  word  of  what  she 
had  seen ;  so  that  the  gradual  cessation  of  Philip's  atten- 
tions was  laid,  by  Grangeford  the  obtuse,  to  the  door  of 
Marion's  own,  sensible  wishes.  And  thankful  enough  was 
Marion  for  this  mistake.  If  Virginia  knew,  this  morn- 
ing, that  it  was  her  friend  who  was  lonely  and  unhappy, 
she  did  not  betray  the  knowledge,  but  kept  Marion  to 
lunch,  amused  her  with  music  and  chatter,  and  sent  her 
home  at  three  o'clock  considerably  enlivened,  though  she 
had  refused  Marion's  invitation  to  sleep  at  the  Hunt 
house  for  the  next  three  weeks. 

During  the  following  seven  days  the  young  Mistress 
of  the  Van  Studdiford  place  had  little  enough  time  for 
blues  or  loneliness.  Half  Grangeford  came  to  her  with 
invitations  or  tacit  requests  for  them.  And  Virginia  tried 
hard  to  be  polite  without  having  to  ask  everyone  to  a 
meal.  She  herself  should  have  enjoyed  life  so  much  if 
only  they  had  left  her  alone ;  for  this  autumn  she  had 
no  dread  of  loneliness.  But,  though  her  every  hour  was 
occupied,  only  one  day  of  her  first  week  proved  in  any 
way  memorable ;  and  that  was  the  eleventh  of  November : 
the  last  day  of  unalloyed  content  that  she  was  to  know 
for  many,  many  years. 

It  was  a  Saturday ;  and,  in  answer  to  her  invitation, 
Philip  and  Mme.  Dupre  were  coming  to  lunch  with  her. 
She  had  not  seen  Philip's  sister  since  the  May  before 
her  wedding.  But,  in  that  long-passed  visit,  she  had  con- 
ceived an   admiration    for  the  rather  too   well   known 

78 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


woman  that  she  had  never  forgotten.  And  as  Van  Studdi- 
ford  did  not  like  Philip's  only  sister,  did  not,  indeed, 
though  he  had  never  said  so,  care  to  have  her  come  in 
contact  with  his  young  wife,  Virginia  made  the  most  of 
her  liberty  to  continue  the  acquaintance. 

Young  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  spent  a  good  deal  of 
thought,  and  her  cook  a  good  deal  of  time,  over  that  lunch- 
eon. The  hour  was  later  than  customary : — two  o'clock ; 
for  Mme.  Dupre  wrote  that  she  could  not  come  by  the 
earlier  train.  On  their  arrival,  at  the  exact  hour  named, 
(for  Mme.  Dupre  had  the  French  idea  of  punctuality,) 
the  Brother  and  Sister  were  ushered  at  once  into  the  din- 
ing-room, where  iced  grape-fruit  waited  at  each  place. 
In  the  center  of  the  table  was  a  moss  mound  stuck  full 
of  deep  red  chrysanthemums:  a  color  toning  well  with 
Virginia's  costume  of  reddish  brown,  and  harmonizing 
singularly  with  the  sunny  auburn  of  Mme.  Dupre's 
changeable  hair.  Philip  and  Virginia  were  seated  at  op- 
posite sides  of  the  square  table,  with  the  guest  between 
them.  And,  gazing  across  the  flower-mound,  Philip 
realized  keenly  that  there  was  actually  one  woman  in  the 
world  comparable  to  his  wonderful  sister.  But  while 
Georgiana's  eyes  were  deep  with  the  fire  of  great  knowl- 
edge of  men  and  the  world,  Virginia's  were  wide  and 
clear  and  too  transparent.  And  where  Georgiana's 
smooth  face  bore  the  indelible  signs  of  vivid  life,  of 
emotion,  of  passion,  Virginia's  rose-leaf  skin  was  still 
nearly  a  blank  page,  open  to  the  pen  of  Time.  And  where 
the  older  woman  talked  always  with  the  brilliance  and  the 
restraint  of  infinite  experience,  the  younger  was  content 

79 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


to  listen  with  the  open  interest  and  admiration  of  one  j 

unused  to  and  unskilled  in  the  great  and  dangerous  game  ] 

of  the  spoken  word.     Thus,  while  he  looked  on,  Philip  i 

Atkinson  suddenly  felt  rising  within  him  an  overweening  I 

desire:  the  desire  to  participate  in  the  instruction  of  his  '; 
cousin's  wife  in  that  art  of  which  he  was  so  devoted  a 
disciple,  and  in  which  his  sister  had  been  an  instructress 
almost  as  potent  as  Experience. 

While  they  sat  at  table,  the  conversation  ranged  over  '' 
a  wide  list  of  impersonal  topics.    But  at  the  conclusion  ] 
of  the  meal,  when  the  trio  adjourned  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  Madame  and  her  Brother  lighted  their  cigar- 
ettes and  Virginia  seated  herself  at  the  piano,  letting  her  i 
fingers  wander  softly  over  the  keys,  through  fragrant  bits 
of  pianissimo  melody  that  rose  like  incense  at  the  shrine 
of  the  other  woman,  Georgiana  was  moved  to  daring.  ' 
She  came  and  leaned  over  the  piano,  the  faint  smoke  from  ! 
her  lips  wreathing  itself  about  her  ruddy  hair ;  her  large,  ", 
dark  blue  eyes  gazing  searchingly  into  the  delicate  face  • 
uplifted  to  hers ;  and,  when  her  spell  was  woven,  asking, 
dreamily :  i 

"  Are  you  happy,  child,  with  red  Cousin  Charles  ?  "  \ 

Then,  to  her  astonishment,  she  found  Virginia  proof  \ 
against  her.     The  music  never  stopped;  but  the  player 
smiled,  bafflingly,  into  her  questioner's  eyes,    "  I  wonder 

who  is  happy  ?  "  was  her  low  reply.  i 

There  was  a  little  pause.   Virginia  sat  wondering  at  I 

her  own  diplomacy.     Georgiana  was  recovering  herself,  : 

and,  finally,  spoke  again.     "  When  you  desire  happiness,"  ■ 

she  observed,  "  I  can  tell  you  where  it  lies,"  ] 

80  i 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  Can  you  ?  "  returned  Virginia,  with  the  peace  of  a 
quiet  soul  rising  to  her  lips.    "  I  wonder  ?  " 

It  was  a  quarter  past  five  when  Virginia,  having  left 
her  guests  at  the  station,  returned  to  the  house,  alone.  She 
was  met  at  the  door  by  the  baby's  nurse,  who  had  been 
anxiously  waiting  for  her  release. 

"  Madam,  the  baby's  sick,  I'm  sure.  She's  been  took 
with  what  acts  like  a  chill.  I  don't  think  the  milk  agrees 
with  her  very  well.     It's  likely  a  little  indigestion." 

Stopping  not  even  to  remove  her  gloves,  Virginia  flew 
upstairs  to  the  nursery,  finding  the  baby  there,  well 
wrapped  up  and  lying  in  her  crib.  The  httle  face  was 
very  white,  and  the  little  form  trembled,  from  time  to 
time,  with  a  faint,  light  cough.  Otherwise  the  child  lay 
very  still. 

"  What  in  the  world  shall  we  do,  Meta  ?  "  asked  Vir- 
ginia, in  a  low  voice. 

"  If  you  could  stay  by  her,  Ma'am,  I  could  run  for 
Doctor  Hollis." 

"  Oh !  Of  course !  I  never  thought  of  the  Doctor. 
Thomas  shall  go  this  instant,  with  the  mare."  And 
Virginia  ran  away  again,  a  vivid  sense  of  relief  at  her 
heart.  What  sickness  could  hold  against  Hollis'  gentle 
skill? 

But  Doctor  Hollis  was  in  the  country,  at  another 
urgent  bedside ;  and  Thomas  had  not  initiative  enough  to 
go  at  once  for  Haswell.  He  only  left  a  message  with 
Mrs.  Hollis  to  send  the  Doctor  as  soon  as  he  returned. 
Virginia  listened  perfunctorily  to  his  report,  when  finally 
he  returned  without  help ;  and  then  she  turned  back  to 

8i 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


the  nursery,  where  the  baby  now  lay  in  a  hot  fever.  For 
two  hours  the  women  worked  and  sat  over  the  child 
alone,  Meta  taking  rather  a  reassuring  view  of  the  case, 
her  experience  having  taught  her  that  a  young  child  can 
be  very  ill  upon  slight  cause.  Nevertheless,  Virginia  was 
badly  frightened ;  and  the  sight  of  the  Doctor,  when,  at 
seven  o'clock,  he  finally  arrived,  was  comforting  enough. 

Hollis  made  a  thorough  examination  of  the  baby, 
closely  questioning  both  nurse  and  Mother  as  to  where 
the  little  thing  had  been,  what  she  had  eaten,  whom  she 
had  seen;  then  he  mixed  some  medicines,  gave  the  first 
dose  himself,  and  accepted  Virginia's  invitation  to  stay 
to  dinner. 

"  Ah ! — I've  had  nothing  since  eleven  o'clock  this 
morning,  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford ;  and  I'm  famished !  "  he 
observed,  cheerily,  as  they  sat  down  at  table.  And  it  was 
well  that  one  of  them  could  eat.  Though  Hollis  pressed 
her  further  than  politeness  admitted,  Virginia,  after  three 
perfunctory  spoonsful  of  bouillon,  sat  crumbling  her 
bread,  nervously,  but  did  not  pretend  to  use  her  fork. 
For  a  few  moments  they  managed  to  talk  on  impersonal 
matters.  But  at  last  Virginia  leaned  forward,  pathet- 
ically, and  asked: 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  her.  Doctor?  " 

For  more  than  a  minute  Hollis  hesitated.  Then  he 
answered,  quietly :  "  I  hope,  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford,  that 
it  is  simply  a  sharp  stomach  attack.  Children,  even  little 
babies,  are  very  prone  to  them,  you  know." 

"  You  hope  this  ?  "  Virginia's  eyes  questioned  him 
further. 

82 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  I  hope  so.  It  might  be  one  of — well,  two  other 
things.  At  present  it  is  too  soon  to  say.  If  the  fever 
lessens  to-night,  she  will  be  perfectly  right  in  a  couple 
of  days." 

"  And  that— little  cough  ?  " 

"  Stomach,  my  dear  Lady.    Stomach ! — Please  eat." 

But  neither  that  night  nor  during  the  following  day, 
nearly  the  whole  of  which  HoUis  spent  at  the  house,  did 
Caroline's  fever  lessen.  By  nightfall  of  the  second  day 
it  was  plain,  even  to  Meta,  that  indigestion  was  not  the 
cause  of  the  baby's  illness.  Moreover,  the  Doctor  had 
now  assured  himself  which  of  the  other  possibilities  had 
become  a  certainty.  The  little  thing  could  lie  only  in  one 
position.  If  moved  in  the  least  from  that,  she  would 
scream  in  a  tone  that  pierced  the  Mother's  heart.  The 
faint,  dry  cough  remained;  and,  though  it  seemed  so 
slight,  it  had,  from  the  first,  worried  Virginia  more  than 
anything  else ;  and  Hollis,  having  listened  to  it  carefully, 
shook  his  head.  The  baby,  in  short,  had  pneumonia; 
though  how  she  had  taken  it,  when,  or  where.  Mother  and 
nurse  racked  their  brains  to  think.  Virginia  was  right, 
perhaps,  when  she  cried  to  herself,  despairingly :  "  It  is 
Fate !    It  is  my  dreadful  Fate !  " 

All  day  Sunday  Meta  and  her  mistress  hung  over 
the  crib.  Nor  could  Virginia  be  persuaded  to  leave  the 
nursery  either  to  eat  or  to  sleep.  Lucy  Markle  brought 
food  to  her,  at  intervals,  on  a  tray.  And  at  night  she  slept 
a  little  on  the  nursery  couch,  while  Meta  watched;  the 
positions  being  reversed  every  two  hours. 

On  Monday,  the  thirteenth,  Hollis  came  very  early  in 

83 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


the  morning ;  but  later  he  was  forced  to  set  off  on  a  round 
of  country  calls.  At  four  in  the  afternoon  Virginia,  tak- 
ing the  baby's  temperature,  found  that  it  had  gone  down 
a  degree  and  a  half,  the  thermometer  standing  at  loif  °. 
At  once  her  spirits  rose,  and  she  cried  to  Meta,  wildly, 
that  the  baby  was  better,  and  then  rushed  downstairs  to 
telephone  the  good  news  to  the  Doctor.  To  her  astonish- 
ment Hollis,  hearing  the  cause  of  her  rapture,  said,  in  a 
grave  tone,  that  he  would  come  up,  at  once.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  though  Virginia  did  not  dream  it,  there  could 
not  have  been  a  more  alarming  symptom.  It  would  have 
been  far  better  had  the  thermometer  recorded  a  degree 
more  fever,  since  night  was  coming  on,  and  at  that  time 
the  temperature  naturally  rises.  When  he  had  watched 
the  child's  breathing  for  half  an  hour,  and  had  changed 
one  of  the  medicines,  Hollis  turned,  with  a  solemn  face, 
and  asked  Virginia  to  go  downstairs  with  him  for  a 
moment.  She  followed  him  to  the  drawing-room,  the 
heart  in  her  breast  throbbing,  painfully.  They  sat  down, 
facing  each  other,  in  one  corner  of  the  room.  Jim  Hollis 
cleared  his  throat,  but  found  it  no  easier  to  speak  the 
words  that  must  be  spoken  to  this  lonely  Mother. 

"  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford,"  he  said,  beginning,  coward- 
like, at  the  easiest  end  of  his  task,  "  I  should  like  your 
permission  to  telegraph  to  Chicago,  to  the  Hahnemann 
Hospital,  for  a  nurse.  It  will  not  only  lighten  your  care, 
but  an  experienced  trained-nurse  is  almost  a  necessity, 
now.  If  the  hardening  spreads,  we  shall  have  to  resort 
to  rather  extreme  measures.    You  are  willing?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  Yes,  Doctor !  Get  two  nurses  if  you  like. — 
84 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Doctor  Hollis — "  She  rose,  suddenly,  her  hands  clasped 
tight  before  her,  her  face  white  and  strained  and  old: 
"  Doctor  Hollis,  you'll — you'll  save  my  Baby  for  me,  won't 
you  ? — Doctor — you — I " 

"  Stop  it,  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford !  Stop,  at  once !  You 
mustn't  break  down !  I  can't  have  that,  you  know.  The 
little  one  will  be  all  right  if  you  don't  fail  her. — There, 
there.  You  see  you've  been  overdoing  it,  rather. — That's 
right.  Have  you  got  any  salts  ?  Good.  Now  you'll  do. 
But  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford,  since  you're  necessarily  nerv- 
ous— ah — wouldn't  it  be  a  help  to  you  to  have  Charles 
back?  Suppose,  now,  you  let  me  send  a  wire  to  him 
when  I've  sent  for  our  nurse,  just  suggesting  that  he 
come  on  as  soon  as  convenient  ?  " 

He  paused,  looking  down  at  her  tentatively.  She  sat 
huddled  up  in  her  chair,  motionless,  her  face  shrunken, 
her  eyes  fixed  in  a  stare.  "  You  want  Charles  to  come 
back  ?  You're  sure  she  can't  live  ?  "  The  tone  was  hard 
and  rough. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  no !  I  certainly  think  we  shall  pull 
her  through.  But,  my  dear  lady,  I  have  to  depend  on  you, 
you  know.  H  you  allow  yourself  to  go  to  pieces — Come 
now,  give  me  Charles'  address,  for  I  must  be  off.  Pull 
yourself  together ;  and  the  nurse  will  be  here  by  the  earli- 
est train  in  the  morning." 

Virginia  gave  the  street  and  number  of  the  Denver 
house  where  Mary  was  staying,  saw  the  Doctor  leave, 
and  then  remounted  the  stairs  to  the  nursery  and  went 
over  to  the  bed,  wondering  if,  a  week  before,  she 
should  have  thought  it  possible  that  the  white,  pinched, 

85 


THE   FIRE    OF  SPRING 


trail  little  creature  before  her  could  have  been  her 
rosy  baby. 

The  endless  night  crept  by,  and  the  morning  of  the 
fooiteentfa  dawned.  The  baby-wail,  feebler  than  before, 
now  sounded  almost  incessantly ;  for  the  right  pleura  was 
affected,  and  the  pain  constant  and  intense.  At  eleven 
o'clock  the  nurse  arrived :  a  quiet,  motherly  woman,  who 
sent  Meta  away  to  sleep  at  once,  and  after  a  time  pre- 
vailed opon  Virginia  to  do  the  same. 

In  the  meantime.  Doctor  Hollis  had  sent  two  tele- 
grams CO  Virginia's  behalf :  the  first  to  Charles,  in  Den- 
ver, the  second  to  Mrs.  Merrill,  at  Hot  Springs,  where 
be  had  heard  she  was  stajring.  And  by  the  Fate  that 
overhung  Virginia,  neither  message  reached  its  destina- 
tkn.  Charles,  taking  Marj-  with  him,  had  already  hur- 
ried on  to  San  Francisco,  not  even  leaving  the  name  of 
his  prospective  hotel  with  his  relatives :  and  the  Merrills, 
having  found  Hot  Springs  overcrowded  and  imcomforta- 
Ue,  had  gone  further  South,  to  Georgia;  and  their  tele- 
gram lay  on  the  desk  of  the  Hot  Springs  Hotel  till  it  was 
finally  thrown  away. 

Wednesday,  the  fifteenth  of  November,  dragged  it- 
self wearily  to  a  dose.  It  had  been  a  raw,  gray  day; 
and  everyone  in  the  Van  Studdiford  household  rejoiced 
when  the  dull  li^t  had  faded,  and  the  lights  could  be 
tnraed  up.  In  the  sickroom  a  low  lamp  burned,  and  the 
nurse  hummed,  softly,  while  she  made  the  preparations 
for  the  night.  The  sound  of  the  tune  comforted  Virginia 
a  little,  as  she  sat  at  one  of  the  windows,  her  forehead 
pressed  against  the  cool  pane.     Could  the  nurse  have 

86 


THE  FIRE  OP  SPRING 


himtmed  like  that  if  the  baby  was  in  imminent  danger? 
Alas !  The  nm-se  could,  and  did,  because  of  her  pity  i<x 
the  pathetically  lonely  Mother. 

All  through  that  night  the  baby  fought  for  breath. 
All  through  the  night  air  was  fanned,  gently,  into  her 
open  mouth.  But  with  each  short  gasp  a  little  strength 
flowed  away ;  and  when,  at  seven  in  the  morning,  Hollis 
came,  he  and  the  nurse  searched  each  other's  eyes,  and, 
reading  what  was  written  in  each,  forebore  to  speak. 

On  that  day,  Thursday,  the  sixteenth  of  November, 
Virginia  witnessed  dreadful  things.  Twice,  in  the  morn- 
ing, she  saw  Miss  Morrison,  watching  the  baby's  izct, 
seize  the  delicate  Uttle  creature  by  the  \e^  and  swing  it 
through  the  air.  Twice  the  Mother,  screaming,  rushed 
to  stop  it ;  but  each  time  saw  the  beloved  little  form  laid 
tenderly  down  again,  the  lost  breath  forced  back,  feu*  a 
Kttle  while,  into  the  rapidly  closing  lungs. 

At  noon  the  Doctor  arrived,  bringing  belated  oxygen 
and  the  apparatus  for  its  use.  At  once  he  ordered  Virginia 
to  her  own  room,  to  eat  scwnething  and  to  lie  down  until 
four  o'clock.  Vainly  did  she  beg  and  protest-  He  would 
not  hear  of  disobedience ;  he  would  not  allow  her  to  remain 
watching  longer.  For  the  moment,  then,  she  surren- 
dered. But,  at  two  o'clock,  unable  to  close  her  eyes  or 
even  to  lie  still,  she  crept  to  the  nursery  door  and 
knelt  before  it,  listening  to  the  faint  sounds  from  with- 
in. Minutes  passed.  Half  an  hour.  An  hour.  She 
never  moved.  In  the  agony  of  her  mind  she  had  become 
quite  insensible  to  time.  But  she  was  waiting — for  some- 
thing :  what,  she  scarcely  knew.    Ah !    This  was  no  Vir- 

87 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


ginia  Merrill!  This,  alas!  was  the  Mother  of  a  child. 
She  knelt  on  and  on,  till  the  tired  muscles  stiflfened,  and 
her  head  rested  against  the  frame.  Finally,  at  half  past 
three,  the  door  opened,  sharply,  and  Virginia  fell  for- 
ward across  the  threshold,  in  a  kind  of  numb  faint. 

HoUis  picked  her  up,  gently,  tenderly,  and  soothed  her 
like  a  woman.  "  I  was  coming  for  you,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"  You  mustn't  faint.  You're  a  strong  woman ;  a  strong, 
brave  woman,  you  know." 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  waited,  while  she  re- 
gained command  of  her  faculties.  Then,  mechanically, 
she  straightened.     "  Take  me  to  my  baby,"  she  said. 

"  Yes.    Come.    I  will  help  you  to  her." 

The  day  was  already  passing,  and  the  light  in  the  room 
was  gray  and  uncertain  as  Virginia  made  her  progress  to 
the  bed.  The  oxygen  apparatus  had  been  laid  aside. 
It  had  done  its  work.  The  little,  drawn,  shrunken  baby 
could  not  use  it  now.  Virginia,  even  while  she  looked 
upon  her  child,  perceived  that  Meta  was  in  the  room,  tears 
rolling  down  her  cheeks.  Miss  Morrison  had  turned  her 
back  upon  the  scene ;  but  Hollis  stood  firm,  close  by. 

"  Carol — little  Carol — Mother's  darling,"  murmured 
Virginia,  very  softly ;  and  laid  her  hands  upon  the  little 
form.  A  change  passed  over  the  baby-face.  Even  at  this 
hour  she  knew  her  Mother's  voice.  Instantly,  Virginia 
took  her  up  into  her  yearning  arms,  clasping  her  close, 
close  to  her  breast.  There  was  a  faint,  tired  cr>'.  Then 
silence.  The  little  body  slowly  stiffened,  but  the  Mother 
did  not  perceive.  For  long  minutes  she  remained  mo- 
tionless, her  clasp  growing  convulsive,  her  lips  murmur- 

88 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


ing  mother-words.  Then  Miss  Morrison  turned  again. 
Mollis  stepped  forward,  and  touched  her  arm. 

"  Poor  child !  "  he  muttered,  hoarsely. 

Virginia  stared  at  him.  Then,  swiftly,  horribly,  her 
face  changed.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  uttered,  A 
sense,  a  new,  dreadful  knowledge,  came  into  her  arms. 
Suddenly  she  screamed : 

"  Oh,  God !  Oh,  my  God !  She's  dead!  Oh,  take  it 
away  from  me !    Take  it  away !  " 

Hollis  got  the  body  from  her  before  she  fell. 

Night  came:  the  dreadful  night,  wherein  crept  upon 
Virginia  the  great,  lonely  terror.  Through  the  dark 
hours  she  lay  in  her  brightly-lighted  room,  with  Lucy 
Markle  always  at  her  side.  Miss  Morrison  flitting  in  and 
out,  Hollis  there  at  least  twice. 

It  was  well,  indeed,  that  Hollis  was  a  capable  man; 
for,  in  that  deserted  household,  the  head  of  it  a  stricken 
child,  there  was  nothing  but  excited  confusion.  But, 
quickly  and  quietly,  Hollis  made  all  the  black  arrange- 
ments. Hollis  sent  innumerable  telegrams,  reaching  Van 
Studdiford,  and  even,  finally,  the  Merrills.  Further,  by 
merciful  means,  the  Doctor  finally  put  Virginia  to  sleep. 
Then,  exhausted,  he  himself  went  home,  eager  for  the 
ministrations  of  his  wife,  who  was  waiting  for  him. 

While  the  Doctor  slept,  his  work  went  on.  From  the 
West  coast,  where,  in  the  Palace  Hotel,  Charles  was 
making  frantic  inquiries  about  special  trains,  to  distant 
Augusta,  where  a  brave  and  sore-tried  woman  was  hurry- 
ing her  arrangements  to  leave  a  sick  husband  to  go  to 
7  89 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


a  heart-broken  child,  many  people  had  been  startled  by 
the  swift  news  of  the  little  heiress'  death.  And  yet, 
through  all  the  morning  of  the  seventeenth,  the  great  Van 
Studdiford  house  remained  impenetrable  to  visitors.  Vir- 
ginia would  see  none  but  "  members  of  the  family."  Even 
the  Hunts  had  been  refused;  for  they  came  early,  when 
Virginia  was  scarcely  free  from  the  effects  of  her  drug; 
and  she  seemed  to  feel  that,  in  time  of  trouble,  Marion's 
sensibleness  would  overpower  her  sympathy.  Thus,  by 
noon,  Virginia  had  seen  no  one  save  her  maid  and  the 
nurse.    For  no  members  of  the  family  had  yet  arrived. 

At  two  o'clock,  however,  Carson  was  called,  for  the 
hundredth  time,  to  the  door,  to  find  a  tall,  rain-soaked 
figure  standing  on  the  veranda,  waiting  for  admittance. 

"  Oh !  Mr.  Atkinson,  Sir ! — You  may  come  in,  please. 
My  orders  to  admit  only  the  family,  Sir." 

"  I  won't  ask  to  see  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford,  unless  she 
wishes  it.  But  I  shall  be  glad  to  stay  here  to-night — if 
she  wants  me.  Charles  can't  arrive  for  sixty  hours  more 
at  best.  Take  my  coat,  Carson.  Have  it  dried.  No. 
Leave  the  box." 

"  If  you'll  step  into  the  drawing-room.  Sir,  Madam's 
upstairs,  I  think.    I'll  take  your  message." 

Carson  disappeared,  with  the  wet  coat,  and  Philip 
turned  to  open  the  box  he  had  brought  with  him.  He  took 
from  it  a  great,  flat  bouquet  of  white  carnations,  from 
which  hung  long  streamers  of  satin  ribbon.  Few  men 
could  have  trusted  themselves  to  carry  such  a  thing.  But 
he  had  brought  it  as  his  tribute  to  Virginia.  To  him  it 
harmonized  with  her  grief  and  the  cause  of  her  grief ;  and 

90 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


he  thought  little  of  his  manner  of  bearing  it  as  he  entered 
the  silent  drawing-room.  For  there  was,  in  Atkinson,  a 
vein  of  real  sympathy  and  tenderness  that  few  men  would 
have  comprehended. 

The  drawing-room,  its  shades  pulled  down,  was 
wrapped  in  gloom.  Philip,  coming  from  gray  daylight, 
could  at  first  see  almost  nothing.  He  moved,  by  instinct, 
to  a  sofa,  and  seated  himself,  gazing  reflectively  at  his 
flowers.  Presently  he  started  to  his  feet  again.  The 
drawing-room  was  not  empty.  Someone  was  certainly 
here.    Someone  had  moved. — Someone  had  sobbed. 

Out  of  the  shadows  at  the  far  end  appeared  the  black- 
robed  figure  of  a  woman.  He  had  a  moment's  glimpse  of 
a  white,  haggard  face,  framed  in  rich  hair.  He  saw  a 
slender  figure,  almost  swaying  as  it  approached  him.  He 
heard  the  high  note  of  relief  in  the  broken  voice  that 
cried : 

"Philip!" 

The  carnations  dropped  from  his  hand.  He  started  for- 
ward, reached  her,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms,  enfolding 
her  tightly,  till  she  felt  herself  protected,  even  comforted 
a  little. 

"  Oh,  Philip !  "  she  moaned  again.  And,  like  a  tired 
child,  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

They  stood  thus,  in  the  darkness,  for  a  full  minute. 
Then  she  perceived  that  his  hand  was  laid  upon  her  hair : 
that  the  touch  was  a  caress.  She  lifted  her  head  a  little, 
and  looked  into  his  face.  Another  moment.  Then,  slowly, 
— irresistibly — he  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

And  still  she  stood  there,  spell-bound,  while,  from  her 

91 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


heart,  through  all  her  veins,  came  a  slow,  fierce  fire, 
upward-creeping :  the  fire  which,  at  the  same  instant,  the 
instant  of  the  kiss,  had  been  kindled  in  their  two  souls, 
and  was  not  to  be  extinguished  till  the  Great  Divider 
had  laid  His  knife  between  them. 

"  Philip — oh,  Philip !  "  she  murmured,  again,  in  the 
darkness. 


92 


CHAPTER  VI 

Van  Studdiford  did  not  get  home  until  the  day  after 
the  funeral.  Perhaps,  had  he  arrived  in  the  midst  of  all 
the  outward  tumult  of  grief,  the  meeting  between  him 
and  Virginia  might  have  done  the  work  of  bitter  years, 
in  the  way  of  softening  the  relationship  between  them. 
As  it  was,  his  coming  could  not  have  been  worse  timed. 
Virginia,  relieved  of  the  unbearable  strain  of  being  alone 
in  the  house  with  her  baby's  empty  frame :  Virginia,  sur- 
rounded by  a  loving  group,  her  Mother,  the  Hunts,  Doc- 
tor HoUis,  Mme.  Dupre  and  Atkinson,  had  now  sunk  into 
a  state  of  utter  apathy.  With  this  she  met  her  husband. 
And  Van  Studdiford,  whose  grief  was  more  one  of  lost 
potentiality  than  of  any  heartfelt  sorrow,  betrayed  toward 
her  no  outward  emotion,  and  himself  felt  little  but  an  in- 
ward apathy.  Reaching  Grangeford  at  11.40,  he  lunched 
at  home,  and  left  for  the  factory  at  a  quarter  past  two, 
wondering  why  in  the  world  he  should  have  been  sum- 
moned so  peremptorily  to  drop  important  business  and 
come  back  to  a  home  where  he  was  not  needed.  Cer- 
tainly Virginia  did  not  need  him.  * 

Ah!  What  a  crying  pity  that  the  wife  should  not 
have  been  still  alone,  and  in  her  first  grief,  when  he  came 
back  to  her !     What  a  misfortune  that  seventy-two  hours' 

93 


THE   FIRE   OF   SPRING 


delay  must  be  atoned  for  by  a  quarter  as  many  years  of 
wretchedness  on  both  sides !  But,  as  it  was,  the  situation 
that  slowly  developed  was  inevitable. 

Mrs.  Merrill  remained  in  Grangeford  for  a  fortnight ; 
and  during  that  time  rather  a  remarkable  change  took 
place  in  her  own  mental  attitude  with  regard  to  her  son-in- 
law  and  his  cousin.  Hitherto  she  had  strongly  distrusted 
Philip,  and  had  felt,  if  not  real  affection  at  least  a  great 
respect  for  and  confidence  in  Charles,  and  all  that  he  did. 
His  present  behavior  was  rapidly  changing  this.  She 
saw  him,  apparently  quite  unmoved  by  the  baby's  death, 
short,  silent,  wrapped  in  his  business,  leaving  Virginia, 
from  morning  to  night,  entirely  to  her  own  resources. 
On  the  other  hand  Philip,  who  was  respectful  almost  to 
the  point  of  formality,  contrived  to  spend  considerable 
time  with  the  two  ladies,  and,  in  that  time,  his  attitude 
of  sympathy,  consideration,  tact,  and  gentleness,  was  so 
perfect,  so  above  reproach,  that  Mrs.  Merrill,  herself  un- 
happy and  depressed,  could  not  but  take  pleasure  in  his  so- 
ciety. And  because  of  this,  how  should  she  not  forget  all 
that  evil  tongues  had  said  of  him  ?  the  tales  of  a  discred- 
itable business  life ;  the  whispered  stories  of  his  love- 
affairs,  her  own  former  instinct  of  distrust?  How  could 
she  counsel  Virginia  still  to  beware  ?  And  how  could  the 
daughter,  quickly  perceiving  her  Mother's  attitude,  help 
slipping  into  the  habit  of  dependence  on  Philip's  com- 
pany, and  do  her  best  to  forget  that  one  incident  of  the 
kiss,  the  mere  thought  of  which  could  still  send  her  into 
a  panic  of  suppressed  feeling? 

In  the  last  week  of  November  Mrs.  Merrill  was  obliged 
94 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


to  return  to  Augusta ;  and  Virginia  was  left  alone  to  face 
another  country  winter.  Ah !  What  had  not  fifteen  short 
days  done  with  her  pretty,  tranquil  life  ?  And  yet,  grieve 
as  she  did,  sincerely,  the  bereaved  wife  could  not  but 
realize  in  her  own  heart  that  she  was  less  utterly  dreary 
than  she  had  been  at  the  same  season  the  year  before.  It 
is  possible  that  she  would  not  have  admitted  this  aloud. 
And  it  is  certain  that  she  endured  many  long,  lonely, 
broken-hearted  days.  But  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  was  not 
yet  twenty  years  old.  And,  bitter  as  it  had  been,  how 
could  her  short  experience  have  been  expected  to  kill  all 
the  elasticity,  the  spirit,  the  everlasting,  bubbling,  spark- 
ling force  of  youth  at  nineteen?  Moreover,  Virginia 
was  in  excellent  health.  She  had  now  no  reason  for  the 
morbid  depression  fostered  by  her  condition  of  a  year 
before.  She  missed  her  baby  terribly;  for  she  had  been 
a  true  and  loving  Mother.  But  she  was  not  yet  of  an 
age  to  have  reached  the  state  of  assurance  that  a  tranquil 
home  life,  the  love  of  husband  and  children,  is,  after  all, 
the  only  true  and  lasting  happiness.  Poor  Virginia  did 
not  love  her  husband:  had  been  robbed  of  her  child. 
What,  then,  was  her  future?  What  awaited  her  in  that 
black  beyond?  Ah — youth  stood  at  her  elbow,  urging. 
Love  lurked  in  the  distant  shadows — that  love  whose 
face  she  had  not  yet  seen.  But  his  low  song  was  already 
audible,  and — she  listened.  In  all  her  life,  Virginia  had 
known  but  one  real  kiss.  By  that,  a  fire  had  been  kindled 
within  her,  burning  faintly  as  yet,  but  in  need  only  of  the 
slightest  encouragement  to  rise  in  an  all-consuming  flame. 
The  Van  Studdiford  household  had,  of  course,  gone 
95 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


into  mourning.  Charles  wore  crape  on  his  sleeve  and  hat, 
and  exchanged  his  red  tie  for  a  black  one.  His  wife  was 
in  black,  and  bands  had  been  sewed  upon  the  plum-colored 
liveries  of  the  footmen.  Virginia  had  never  before  owned 
a  black  garment ;  and  she  was  still  unaware  that  it  was 
more  becoming  to  her  than  any  color.  True,  there  were 
few  to  see  her  in  it ;  for  this  was  the  gay  season  in  Grange- 
ford,  and  every  one  was  planning  or  going  to  entertain- 
ments from  which  she  was,  as  a  matter  of  course,  excluded. 
She  had  many  calls  of  condolence ;  but  to  most  of  these, 
with  her  usual  shyness,  she  denied  herself.  Once  more, 
then,  as  a  year  before,  she  was  thrown  upon  her  own  re- 
sources :  Marion  and  music.  Doctor  Hollis  was  not  needed 
now ;  but  he  had  a  substitute — one  who  rather  more  than 
filled  his  former  place ;  one  who  should  not  have  filled  it  at 
all :  the  third  member  of  the  Van  Studdiford  household. 
At  the  present  time,  Atkinson  was  as  much  a  part  of 
the  household  as  he  had  been  before  his  cousin's  marriage. 
He  was  working  very  steadily  this  winter;  and  Charles 
watched  him  with  real  satisfaction,  perceiving  that  now- 
adays he  went  rarely  to  Chicago,  and  that  in  more  than 
two  months  he  had  not,  for  a  single  night,  been  unaccount- 
ably absent.  Atkinson  was,  perhaps,  as  much  surprised  as 
any  one  at  his  growing  interest  in  Grangeford  affairs.  If 
he  had  an  interest,  a  keen  interest,  in  the  house  in  which 
he  lived,  he  never  questioned  himself  upon  the  subject. 
He  knew  that  he  was  in  the  delightful  stage  of  daily  dis- 
covery ;  and  he  was  too  much  of  an  artist  to  hasten  mat- 
ters, or  to  indulge  in  any  sort  of  self-analysis.  In  his 
garden  was  the  tender  green  of  a  new  plant,  and  he  was 

96 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


content  to  let  nature  keep  the  place  of  gardener.  Incident 
and  circumstance,  the  sunshine  and  the  rain  of  growing 
love,  must  feed  this  passion-vine:  must,  little  by  little, 
bring  a  bud  thereto,  and  develop  it  into  the  perfect-petalled 
flower.  And  who,  understanding  it,  could  have  the  heart 
to  hurry  a  process  so  exquisite? 

The  object  of  Philip's  dreams  and  delusive  metaphors, 
to  do  her  justice,  was  perfectly  unconscious  of  them,  and 
also  of  the  imminent  danger  of  her  own  state  of  mind. 
Yet,  by  her  unwillingness  to  indulge  in  any  introspection, 
Virginia  was,  unquestionably,  open  to  some  sort  of  re- 
proof. She  was  pursuing  an  uneven,  nay,  an  eccentric 
course;  but  she  asked  no  advice,  even  of  herself,  con- 
cerning her  road.  She  was  passing  through  a  dangerous 
stretch,  leading  from  the  valley  of  quiet  sorrow  up  to  the 
wild  and  lofty  heights  of  unnatural  happiness.  Day  by 
day,  if  she  would  but  notice,  she  could  perceive  the  situa- 
tion defining  itself.  But  it  was  not  till  after  New  Year's, 
in  the  January  of  1897,  that  she  found  herself  taking 
deliberate  action.  Then,  by  means  of  a  little  series  of 
accidents  leading  up  to  a  scene  long  desired  by  the  man, 
everything  became  clear. 

It  was  a  bitter  cold  day  toward  the  middle  of  the 
month.  Van  Studdiford  was  away :  had  gone,  that  morn- 
ing, to  Chicago,  and  was  not  to  return  before  seven  in 
the  evening  at  the  earliest.  Philip,  of  course,  was  at  the 
factory ;  but,  as  he  left  the  house  after  luncheon,  Virginia 
had  asked  him,  laughingly,  if  he  would  not  come  home 
to  take  tea  with  her,  that  afternoon,  at  five  o'clock.  She 
had  had  little  idea  of  his  taking  the  invitation  seriously ; 

97 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


but  when  he  accepted  it  she  experienced  a  sensation 
of  very  real  pleasure.  At  two  she  went  to  her  room,  lay 
down,  and  fell  asleep,  not  waking  till  four.  Opening  her 
eyes  she  found  Lucy  standing  by  the  bed,  with  the  an- 
nouncement that  Miss  Hunt  had  called,  and  was  waiting 
downstairs  to  know  if  she  could  see  Mrs.  Van  Studdi- 
ford.  It  was  on  Virginia's  lips  to  have  her  shown  up- 
stairs when  the  remembrance  of  her  prospective  tea-party 
came  back. 

"  Oh,  I'm — sleepy,  Lucy,"  she  said,  petulantly.  "  Tell 
Miss  Hunt  that  I'm  not  awake  yet  and  you  can't  dis- 
turb me." 

"  Yes,  Madam."  And  Lucy,  thinking  nothing  of  the 
message,  slipped  away,  leaving  Virginia  staring  up  at  the 
ceiHng,  wondering  why  in  the  world  she  had  yielded  to 
that  impulse. 

In  a  moment  or  two  the  maid  was  back  again,  mov- 
ing softly  about  the  room  arranging  her  Mistress'  dinner 
gown  and  the  details  of  the  toilet.  Virginia  lay  silently 
watching  her  till,  having  finished,  she  turned  to  ask: 
"  Will  you  sleep  again  ?  Shall  I  have  Carson  serve  tea 
in  your  room.  Madam  ?  " 

Then  Virginia  jumped  up,  suddenly.  "  No.  No ! — 
Is  it  late? — Mr.  Atkinson's  coming  to  have  tea  with  me, 
at  five  o'clock.  I  want  it  served  in  the  drawing-room. 
Dress  me  quickly. — What  am  I  to  wear  ?  " 

"  I  think.  Madam,  that  Mr.  Atkinson  admires  you  in 
the  black  lace  Princesse  gown." 

Virginia  looked  at  her  sharply.  "  How  do  you  know 
what  he  admires? — that  he  admires  me?  "  she  demanded. 

98 


THE   FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Lucy  lowered  her  eyes.  "  Everyone  admires  you, 
Madam." 

For  a  moment  or  two  Virginia  continued  to  stare. 
Then  her  face  broke  into  a  smile.  "  Well — bring  the 
black  lace,  then. — Oh — I  wish  I  could  wear  something 
beside  black  or  white,  just  for  an  hour !  " 

"  Black  is  the  most  becoming  thing  you  can  put  on," 
ventured  Lucy,  retiring  to  the  wardrobe.  And  the  con- 
versation closed. 

It  was,  however,  notable  that,  particular  as  Lucy  al- 
ways was  about  her  Mistress'  toilets,  she  was  not,  upon 
this  occasion,  as  anxious  as  her  lady  appeared  to  be  to 
achieve  something  unusual.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
Virginia  had  seriously  considered  Philip's  possible  ad- 
miration. Probably  it  was  as  yet  nothing  more  than  the 
wakening  of  a  latent  instinct  of  flirtation ;  with  which  she 
should  have  been  familiar  enough  to  have  cast  it  aside 
upon  her  wedding  day.  It  was  actually,  however,  some- 
thing that  she  had  never  known  until  to-day ;  and,  now, 
dangerous  situations  were  less  apt  to  be  feared  than  igno- 
rantly  courted.  Even  during  the  half  hour  of  dressing, 
Virginia  discovered  and  enjoyed  sensations  of  which, 
to  be  sure,  she  had  read,  perhaps  dreamed,  but  which 
she  had  scarcely  believed  could  form  a  part  of  real  life. 
And,  when  Lucy  had  finished  her,  and  she  stood  before 
her  long,  cheval  glass,  she  kept  her  maid  busy  for  some 
time  following  out  last  suggestions ;  for  it  was  the  first 
time  since  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford's  wedding  day  that  she 
had  been  thoroughly  interested  in  the  result  of  Lucy's 
labors. 

99 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


At  a  quarter  to  five  Virginia,  having  herself  given 
Carson  the  instructions  about  tea,  went  into  the  drawing- 
room,  walked  to  the  far  end  of  it,  and  seated  herself,  in 
the  dusk,  at  the  piano.  To  her  extreme  surprise,  she  was 
nervous.  Her  hands  lay  cold  upon  the  keys;  her  heart 
was  beating  unsteadily.  Yes.  She  was  nervous ; — ^because 
Philip  Atkinson  was  coming  home  to  take  tea  with  her ! 
Cousin  Philip,  whom,  for  six  months,  she  had  thought 
of  as  just  a  member  of  the  family !  What  in  the  world 
had  changed  him  so,  in  her  eyes?  She  could  not  think. 
— She  would  not  think.  But  it  was  a  long  train  of  in- 
cidents, insignificant  in  themselves,  taking  their  root  in 
what  was  not  insignificant.  They  had  sprung  from  dark- 
ness.   They  were  embedded  in — a  kiss.     The  kiss. 

Virginia  sat  quite  still,  her  head  bowed  over  the  keys, 
waiting  till  the  dusk  had  died.  Then  she  rose  and  turned 
up  a  light  in  the  hand  of  a  bronze  figure  beside  the  piano. 
Immediately  thereafter  Carson  brought  in  tea,  arranged 
it  on  the  usual  table  beside  her,  and  retired,  without  a 
word. 

It  was  past  five.  Philip  had  not  come.  Ah !  He  had 
forgotten  all  about  it!  Of  course!  He  was  at  the  fac- 
tory. He  was  busy — as  busy  as  Charles.  And  she — she 
was  a — fool!  Bitter  tears  trembled  on  her  lashes,  and  the 
affair  might  have  ended  valuably.  But,  just  then,  the 
front  door  opened  and  shut.  There  were  hurried  steps 
through  the  hall,  toward  the  stairs;  and  Virginia  knew 
that  it  was  Atkinson.  Already  his  step  distinguished 
itself  to  her.  The  tears  went  back,  swiftly ;  but  the  delay 
had  served  to  restore  her  own  composure,  and  part  of 

100 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


her  common  sense.  Now  she  poured  out  her  own  tea, 
and  was  sipping  it,  tranquilly,  when  Atkinson,  clean, 
well-brushed,  easy  as  usual,  came  in,  closing  the  door 
after  him.  He  walked  slowly  down  the  room,  his  lips 
curved  into  a  slight  smile.  The  color  crept  up  Virginia's 
cheeks  as  she  read  the  comment  in  his  eyes.  She  did  not 
rise,  as  she  held  out  her  hand,  which  he  carried  to  his 
lips,  with  an  air  so  ceremonious  that  she  could  not  pro- 
test. Then  he  seated  himself  opposite  her,  and,  waiting 
for  his  tea,  began  to  talk,  gayly.  Under  the  lightness  of 
his  tones  Virginia's  second  embarrassment  melted  away,- 
and  she  answered  him  in  kind,  relieved  that  he  had  been 
able  so  easily  to  remove  the  strain,  and  yet  half  wishing 
that  he  might  allow  it  to  return. 

It  did.  Atkinson  kept  up  his  banter  till  the  little 
meal  was  over.  Then,  as  she  moved  instinctively  to  the 
piano,  he  stood  in  the  little  curve  on  the  right  side  of  the 
instrument,  and  watched  her.  She  played,  softly,  that 
rich,  low,  stately  melody  that  opens  the  etude  number  3, 
opus  10,  of  Chopin,  And  the  music  wove  its  spell  about 
them  both,  not  more  upon  her  than  him,  for  his  tempera- 
ment was  markedly  impressionable. 

"  How  long — have  you  been  able — to  play  like  that  ?  " 
he  asked,  at  last,  slowly. 

She  smiled.  "  I  don't  know.  Anyone  can  play  Chopin : 
— anyone,  I  mean,  that  loves  him  well  enough." 

"  And  could  you  also  play  upon  anyone  whom  you — 
loved  enough  ?  " 

Deliberately  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his.  Her  answer, 
whether  she  intended  it  or  not,  was  in  the  look. 

lOI 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  Virginia !  "  he  murmured. 

The  melody  died.  Her  hands  lay  quiet  in  her  lap, 
till  he  came  and  lifted  one  of  them.  Then,  overcome  with 
a  quick  dizziness,  she  rose,  suddenly.  And,  as  suddenly, 
he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  again — and 
twice — and  thrice,  till,  with  a  cry,  she  escaped  from  him, 
and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

Atkinson  remained  just  where  she  had  left  him.  He 
was  amazed  at  himself.  He  had  not  in  the  least  intended 
to  do  what  he  had  done.  And,  question  himself  as  he 
would,  he  could  not  perceive  how  he  had  come  to  make 
so  precipitate  a  mistake.  Was  it  possible  that  he — he,  a 
veteran,  a  skilled  artist  in  this  sort  of  work,  could  have 
lost  his  head?  Absurd!  But,  at  least,  it  should  never 
happen  again. 

That  this  last  resolve  of  his  was  kept,  was  more  to  his 
credit  than  might  be  supposed.  It  is  true  that  he  had 
long  since  perfected  himself  in  the  delicate  game  of  pre- 
tended love.  There  were  very  few  women  whom  he  could 
not  influence  exactly  as  he  chose.  But  all  the  secret  of  his 
power  lay  in  the  fact  that,  though  he  was  a  man  of  strong- 
est passions,  he  had  hitherto  found  himself  incapable  of 
a  serious  attachment.  He  could  always  admire  any  woman 
whom  he  took  the  trouble  to  captivate.  He  had  never,  he 
himself  declared,  loved  one  of  them.  And  now,  at  the  age 
of  thirty-three,  he  had  found,  in  a  country  town,  a  child  of 
nineteen  with  whom — he  was  not  sure  of  himself.  Pre- 
posterous ! — Delightful ! 

In  the  weeks  that  followed,  he  watched  himself  closely ; 
and  he  discovered  that  he  was  not  infallible :  that  perhaps, 

102 


r-- 


HE  CAUGHT  HER  IN   HIS  ARMS,  AND  KISSED  HER  AGAIN. 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


since,  after  all,  there  was  such  a  thing  as  love  for  him, 
it  would  be  more  than  worth  while  to  cultivate  it.  At  least 
— either — he  ought  to  go  away ;  or,  so  infinitely  easier,  he 
ought  to  stay,  fling  every  better  feeling  to  the  winds,  and 
take  that  which  awaited  him.  But  it  was  a  situation  not 
much  to  his  taste.  Van  Studdiford  was — his  cousin ;  and 
far  too  much  his  benefactor. 

It  was  this  state  of  vacillation  in  one  hitherto  perfectly 
sure  of  himself,  that  produced  the  strange  situation  exist- 
ing in  the  Van  Studdiford  house  during  February  and 
half  of  March.  Philip  was  giving  expression  to  each 
fleeting  mood;  and  Virginia,  with  a  nature  as  impressi- 
ble as  smooth  wax,  recorded  each  by  her  own  behavior. 
Truly,  they  were  not  very  happy  in  each  other.  After  his 
every  smallest  betrayal  of  feeling  for  her,  Atkinson's 
other  nature  forced  him  into  battle  with  himself.  Years 
of  self-assurance,  of  indulgence  in  his  every  whim,  had 
weakened  his  character :  how  incredibly,  he  was  just  dis- 
covering. Even  now  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  he  could 
not,  if  he  chose,  have  in  one  day  escaped  from  his  self- 
forged  fetters.  It  needed  many  attempts  to  show  him  how 
fast  he  was  bound.  And  all  that  those  about  him  perceived 
or  thought  of  him  was,  that  he  had  worked  very  well  for 
some  months,  and  was  now  simply  showing  a  natural  re- 
action. Frequently,  and  always  without  any  notice,  he 
disappeared,  and,  for  a  day  or  two  at  a  time,  was  lost,  pre- 
sumably in  the  wilderness  of  Chicago.  The  presump- 
tions were  correct  enough.  His  old  haunts  began  to  know 
him  again.  People,  men  and  women,  now  looked  forward 
to  his  coming.     Out  of  a  sardonic  sense  of  humor,  he 

103 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


hunted  up  Muriel  Howard — still  living  in  an  agreeable 
retirement  and  visible  to  very  few,  of  whom,  however, 
Atkinson  seemed  always  to  be  one.  In  her  company, 
many  resorts  saw  him ;  and,  after  each  plunge  into  infamy, 
there  returned  to  Grangeford  a  miserable  man,  who 
avoided  Virginia  Van  Studdiford  out  of  very  shame. 

Finally,  after  a  month  or  two  of  this,  Philip  began 
to  perceive  that,  by  a  contrast  of  his  own  devising,  the 
woman  he  wished  to  forget  was  becoming  daily  more  ex- 
quisite, more  pure,  more  desirable  in  his  eyes.  And  so, 
for  a  fortnight,  from  the  first  to  the  middle  of  March,  he 
worked  in  Grangeford  steadily,  indulging  himself,  out 
of  hours,  only  in  certain  newly-suggested  forms  of  wor- 
ship at  his  consecrated  shrine. 

During  these  two  weeks  Virginia  knew,  at  last,  some 
peace  of  mind.  What  she  had  endured  during  the  month 
of  February,  went  untold.  It  had  been  worth  a  year 
of  schooling  in  the  world.  For,  in  his  zeal  after  self- 
repression,  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  to  consider  the  pos- 
sible effect  of  his  eccentric  methods  on  the  woman  he 
cared  for.  He  never  knew  what  she  endured  at  each  dis- 
appearance. Had  he  guessed,  it  would  only  have  been  a 
delight  to  know  that  she  could  suffer  thus  through  him. 
He  was  too  selfish  to  pity  her :  to  be  remorseful  that  every 
slighting  reference  in  regard  to  his  absence  from  the  lips 
of  Van  Studdiford,  Hollis,  even  Marion  Hunt,  who  found 
time  to  be  caustic-tongued  nowadays,  should  be  a  knife- 
thrust  in  her  heart.  Long,  long  afterwards,  indeed,  when 
at  last  she  could  bear  to  remember  this  period  at  all,  all 
that  Virginia  could  recall  of  it  was  the  many,  long  after- 

104 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


noons  spent  in  her  own  room,  in  pretended  sleep.  She 
got  into  this  habit  of  retirement  for  the  sake  of  being 
alone.  Even  Lucy  Markle  was  not  permitted  to  disturb 
her.  And  here,  on  her  bed,  sleepless  and  anxious,  she 
would  lie  meditating,  trying  to  impress  upon  herself  her 
only  rightful  line  of  procedure.  Hour  after  hour  she  spent 
gazing  straight  before  her,  out  of  her  Southern  window, 
up  a  short  stretch  of  snowy  road  which  used  to  reflect, 
in  sunshine  and  shadow,  every  phase  of  the  day  till,  at 
length,  the  patch  of  sky  at  the  road's  end  was  filled  by 
the  glory  of  the  setting  sun.  And  this  lonely  country  out- 
look became  afterwards  inextricably  interwoven  with  all 
the  unhappy  doubts,  all  the  daring  joys,  of  her  perplexed 
imagination.  Many  events  of  moment  to  her  took  place 
upon  it ;  and  in  the  end,  by  night,  it  was  always  along  this 
road,  lengthened,  perhaps,  by  endless  miles,  that  Philip 
came  back  to  her  forever. 

March  came  in,  on  a  wild  burst  of  wind.  And  now, 
with  the  cessation  of  Atkinson's  wanderings,  a  kind  of 
desultory  happiness  was,  for  a  brief  season,  renewed.  He 
sought  Virginia  frequently;  and  his  manner  toward  her 
had  in  it  almost  a  pathos.  In  their  relationship  all  was  in- 
definite, intangible;  but  their  conversation  habitually  ran 
along  the  borderland  of  danger.  Neither  one  of  them, 
however,  permitted  it  actually  to  cross  the  frontier.  There 
were  no  kisses  now.  They  talked  together  in  full  light, 
often  in  the  presence  of  others.  No  one  could  ever  have 
surprised  them  at  an  awkward  moment  of  the  tete-a-tete. 
But  the  greater  their  care,  the  stronger  the  realization,  on 
their  part  and  on  that  of  Lucy  Markle,  that  the  affair  was 
8  105 


THE   FIRE   OF   SPRING 


serious.  It  would  have  been  impossible  to  go  on  in  this 
same  way  for  another  month  without  development. 

Fortunately,  or,  as  they  believed,  unfortunately,  this 
possibility  was  prevented  by  a  prospective  change,  ar- 
ranged by  one  who  was  falling  into  the  power  of  an  in- 
scrutable, guiding  Providence.  On  the  morning  of  the 
fifteenth  of  March,  when  Atkinson,  half  an  hour  late, 
entered  the  factory,  he  was  summoned  at  once  to  his 
cousin's  private  office,  where,  after  a  little  preliminary,  he 
was  told  that  he  was  to  start  West  on  the  following  Thurs- 
day, in  company  with  a  young  engineer,  Henry  Fiirst,  pro- 
ceeding directly  to  Phoenix,  Arizona,  and  thence,  a  few 
weeks  later,  to  Sacramento,  to  examine  plans  and  let  con- 
tracts at  those  points  for  branch  houses  to  be  devoted  es- 
pecially to  the  manufacture  of  the  gigantic  plows  used  in 
Western  grain-fields. 

Atkinson  was  in  the  office  for  two  hours.  When  he 
came  out,  he  should  have  understood  what  had  been  in 
his  cousin's  mind  for  a  month.  As  it  was,  all  that  he 
really  grasped  was  the  fact  that,  in  just  three  days,  he 
was  to  leave  Grangeford  for  a  period  of  not  less  than  six 
weeks.  And  the  utter  dismay  with  which  that  reflection 
struck  him,  should  also  have  shown  how  necessary  it  was 
that  he  should  go.  But  he  felt  that  he  himself  did  not 
dare  tell  Virginia.  If  he  were  to  see,  written  on  her  face, 
any  of  the  feeling  that  lay  in  his  own  heart,  he  knew  that 
he  should  not  be  able  to  trust  himself.  As  it  came  about, 
then,  Virginia  learned  the  news  next  day,  at  luncheon, 
from  Van  Studdiford.  Nor,  during  the  remainder  of 
the  meal,  could  anyone  have  perceived  any  special  change 

io6 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


in  her  expression  or  her  manner.  She  did  not,  per- 
haps, realize,  till  considerably  later  in  the  day,  how 
much  that  plan  of  her  husband's  was  going  to  affect 
her.  And  when  she  did  perceive  it,  she  only  lay  per- 
fectly still  upon  her  bed,  staring  out  and  up  to  that 
bit  of  muddy  road,  above  which  scurried  masses  of  gray, 
jagged  clouds. 

Atkinson  was  to  leave  Grangeford  early  on  the  morn- 
ing of  Thursday,  the  eighteenth  of  March.  This  Virginia 
heard  on  Tuesday.  Of  the  intervening  day  and  night 
neither  she  nor  Atkinson  remembered  much.  And  in 
the  manner  of  their  eventual  parting  she  had  absolutely 
no  hand :  did  nothing  more  than  acquiesce.  He  arranged 
it  all,  taking  comfort  in  the  fantastic  beauty  of  his  idea : 
wanting  nothing  more  than  was  given.  Wednesday  even- 
ing dragged,  dolefully.  The  trio,  Charles,  Philip  and 
Virginia,  sat  silent  in  the  drawing-room,  Charles  read- 
ing, Philip  trying  hard  to  fasten  his  mind  on  some  neces- 
sary papers,  Virginia  pretending  to  sew.  From  half  hour 
to  half  hour  two  of  the  three  wondered  why  Charles  did 
not  go  to  the  library,  where  all  his  evenings  were  accus- 
tomed to  be  spent.  Virginia  asked  herself,  drearily,  if 
she  should  be  obliged  to  say  good-bye  before  him.  Her 
face  grew  quite  white  with  dull,  inward  anger.  When,  at 
half  past  ten,  he  had  still  not  moved,  she  rose,  in  despera- 
tion: 

"  I  am  going  upstairs,"  she  announced,  petulantly. 
"  Good-night,  Charles." 

"  Oh — are  you  ? — Good-night." 

Philip  had  risen  when  she  did.  He  waited,  while  she 
107 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


brushed  her  husband's  forehead  with  her  Ups,  and  then, 
quite  naturally,  followed  her  into  the  hall. 

"  Surely  you  are  going  to  say  good-bye  to  me  ?  "  he 
demanded,  aloud. 

The  door  shut,  behind  them.  He  took  her  hand. 
"  Forgive  me,"  he  began,  hurriedly.  "  I  want  to  see 
you  alone — for  three  minutes.  Go  to  your  room  and 
wait.  I  shall  follow  you  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. — 
May  I?" 

She  looked  at  him  for  one  moment,  hesitating.  But 
his  eyes  met  hers  honestly.  Then  she  smiled,  and  mur- 
mured, faintly :    "  Yes !  "    After  that,  she  was  gone. 

Lucy  Markle  was  waiting  upstairs,  as  usual,  to  put 
her  to  bed.  But  the  room !  When  Virginia  saw  it,  she 
stopped  still,  astounded.  The  bed  was  loosely  covered 
with  meteor  roses.  The  low  mantel-piece  was  banked 
with  them.  They  lay  scattered  on  the  carpet.  They  had 
been  flung  across  the  dressing-table,  the  window-seat,  the 
desk.  The  whole  room  breathed  the  fragrance  of  the 
crimson  velvet  flowers.  And  in  the  midst  of  them,  a 
white  lace  garment  thrown  across  her  arm,  stood  Lucy, 
staring  at  her  mistress  anxiously. 

"  Lucy,  who  did  this  ?  " 

"  I,  Madam,  if  you  please." 

"  You !— Bah !— Who  sent  them  ?  " 

Lucy's  head  drooped.  "  My  orders.  Madam,  were 
from  Mr.  Atkinson." 

"  Ah ! — How  dared  you  take  orders  from  anyone 
but  me?" 

"  Oh,  Madam !    Forgive  me ! — I  thought " 

io8 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Virginia  silenced  her  by  a  gesture.  She  turned,  exam- 
ining the  room  with  a  straightening  mouth.  Then, 
contemptuously  sweeping  the  flowers  off  one  of  the  chairs, 
she  seated  herself,  wearily,  and  let  her  head  fall  back, 
while  Lucy  stood  gazing  at  her,  in  anxious  uncertainty. 
The  pause  lasted  for  two  or  three  very  uncomfortable 
minutes.    Then  Virginia  opened  her  eyes  again. 

"  I  suppose  he  also  told  you  how — you  were — to  let 
him  in  ?    Put  away  that — thing  you  have  got,  and — go !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but — am  I — to  let  him  in  ?  " 

Virginia  gave  some  sort  of  angry  ejaculation.  Why 
must  she  thus  be  made  to  decide  this  thing?  After  a 
little,  however,  seeing  that  Lucy  did  not  move,  she  man- 
aged, a  second  time,  to  whisper :  "  Yes."  And  Lucy,  with 
a  smile  and  a  return  of  alacrity,  hurried  away. 

Left  alone,  Virginia's  mood  changed.  After  all,  the 
idea  of  the  roses  had  been  like  him:  beautiful,  reckless, 
dangerous.  Suppose  Charles  should  come  in  just  now? 
She  started  up,  terrified,  and  locked  her  door  from  the 
inside.  At  the  same  moment  the  sound  of  footsteps 
reached  her  ears,  and  she  turned,  just  as  Atkinson  halted 
on  the  boudoir  threshold. 

He  was  smiling,  joyously,  and,  examining  the  room, 
saw  that  his  idea  had  been  well  carried  out:  that  one 
flower  was  even  clinging  to  the  lace  sleeve  of  her  gown, 
held  there  by  its  thorn.  But  his  smile  faded  when  his 
eyes  reached  her  expression. 

"  You  are  not  pleased  ?  "  he  asked,  softly. 

"  Philip !  Philip !  How  reckless  it  is  I  How  am  I  to 
get  rid  of  them?" 

109 


THE  FIRE   OF   SPRING 


**  What  does  it  matter  ?  You  are  to  be  rid  of  me 
sooner." 

She  could  not  answer  in  words ;  but  the  sudden  change 
in  her  face  encouraged  him. 

"  Virginia — haven't  you  a  word  for  me  ?  " 

At  last  the  answer  was  all  that  he  wished.  She  was  in 
his  arms. 

There  were  but  two  or  three  minutes  more;  a  few 
kisses,  some  incoherent  phrases,  tears  hot  from  her  eyes 
on  his  face,  some  suggestion  of  letters.  Then,  with  gentle 
delicacy,  he  had  pressed  her  hand  tight  to  his  lips,  and 
was  gone,  returning  by  the  way  he  had  come. 

Virginia  was  alone.  Stooping,  she  lifted  from  the  floor 
one  perfect  flower  that  his  feet  had  touched.  This  she 
wrapped  in  a  soft  handkerchief,  and  laid  in  a  drawer  of 
her  desk.  Finally,  she  summoned  Lucy  from  the  little 
room  beyond  her  boudoir. 

"  You  must  take  everyone  of  these  roses  away,  to 
your  own  room.  Then,  in  the  morning,  early,  get  rid 
of  them  in  some  way.  Come  back  when  you  have  taken 
them  all  out,  and  undress  me." 

And,  as  Lucy  set  to  work,  Virginia  threw  herself  again 
into  the  chair  and  stared  about  the  empty  room  so  infin- 
itely empty  now. 


no 


CHAPTER  VII 

Usually  Virginia,  like  all  young  and  healthy  people, 
was  an  easy  sleeper.  That  night,  however,  it  was  three 
hours  past  midnight  before  consciousness  would  leave 
her.  She  tossed  and  turned  and  burned  upon  her  bed, 
tortured  with  the  thought  that  Philip  was  still  in  the 
house,  and  that  in  less  than  twelve  hours  he  would  be 
irrevocably  gone.  She  longed  for  day,  while  she  also 
dreaded  it,  unspeakably.  The  thought  of  Grangeford 
without  a  companionship  that  had  grown  to  be  so  much 
to  her,  was  unendurable.  She  put  it  from  her  again  and 
again.  Finally,  from  sheer  exhaustion  of  all  thought, 
she  fell  into  a  feverish  sleep,  which,  as  the  hours  passed, 
grew  quieter. 

It  was  ten  in  the  morning  before  she  opened  her  eyes, 
to  find  Lucy  standing  beside  her  bed  with  a  tray  on  which 
was  a  small  pot  of  coffee,  a  pitcher  of  hot  milk,  two  rolls, 
and  the  usual  egg.  For  a  moment  or  two  she  stared  dully 
at  her  maid,  groping  for  the  meaning  of  the  weight  at  her 
heart.  In  a  moment  it  came.  Philip  had  gone.  By 
now  Philip  was  far  on  his  way  to  Chicago,  and  so  out, 
into  the  distant  West.  There  could  be  no  longer  any  in- 
terest in  any  day  for  her.  Cold  water  woke  her  thorough- 
ly; and  she  returned  to  her  nest  to  play,  drearily,  with 
her  food,  till,  when  she  had  finished,  Lucy  returned,  bear- 
ing with  her  a  great  bowl  of  red  roses.     At  a  little  dis- 

III 


THE   FIRE   OF   SPRING 


tance  from  the  bed  the  maid  halted,  asking,  with  her  eyes, 
for  approval.    Virginia  smiled. 

"  Are  they  fresh  roses  ?  "  she  demanded,  softly. 

"  No,  Madam.  I  saved  them  from  the  others.  If  you 
— do  not  wish  them " 

"  Put  them  there — on  my  desk. — Now  help  me  to 
dress." 

The  morning  was  cold  and  blustery-gray.  Virginia's 
spirits  were  at  lowest  level  when,  half  an  hour  later,  she 
wandered  downstairs.  How  big,  and  empty,  and  desolate 
the  house  was !  Heavens !  Why  had  she  not  thought 
so  before  ?  And  why  did  no  one  come  to  see  her  ?  Surely 
Marion  might  have  been  there  oftener  than  she  had,  of 
late.  Surely — What  was  it,  in  Virginia's  thoughts,  that 
brought  her  to  a  standstill  ?  Five  minutes  of  hesitation, 
and  then  she  ran  to  the  telephone. 

Yes,  Miss  Hunt  was  in.  Presently  she  was  at  the 
wire,  but  her  preliminary  "  Hello !  "  froze  all  the  warmth 
out  of  Virginia's  voice.  No.  She  was  afraid  she  should 
be  unable  to  come  out  this  morning.  She  was  extremely 
busy.  This  afternoon  ?  Well,  she  hardly  knew.  Really, 
she  had  so  much  to  do — you  see — well,  perhaps,  if  Vir- 
ginia insisted,  she  would  try  to  run  in  just  for  a  moment 
about  four  o'clock.     But  she  couldn't  say  positively. 

Virginia's  good-bye  was  short,  and  she  walked  slowly 
back  into  the  drawing-room  with  a  new  expression  on  her 
face.  What  was  the  matter  with  Marion  ?  True,  she  had 
scarcely  seen  her  friend  for  the  last  month  or  so ;  but,  till 
to-day,  she  had  not  thought  about  it.  It  had  not  occurred 
to  her  to  want  Marion  before.       Now,    suddenly,    she 

112 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


began  to  want  her  very  much.  Was  it  possible — could 
it  be  possible — that  she  thought  anything  wrong? 

After  an  unpleasant  hour,  the  young  wife  seated  her- 
self at  her  piano,  and  remained  there  till  luncheon-time. 
But  she  found  that  she  could  not  play  away  the  load  upon 
her  heart.     That,  alas !  had  come  to  stay. 

Though  Virginia,  inexperienced  in  the  ways  of  of- 
fended womanhood,  had  begun  to  doubt,  Marion  did 
come  to  see  her  that  afternoon,  arriving  about  half  past 
three ;  and  the  call,  begun  in  constrained  formality,  really 
ended  in  renewed  friendliness.  For  Marion  did  not 
"  know  anything,"  and  her  cause  of  offense  rose  largely 
from  a  feeling  of  pique  that  the  Van  Studdiford  house 
had  not  been  open  to  her  lately ;  and,  added  to  this,  there 
was  a  faint  suspicion  about  Philip  which  Virginia's  man- 
ner went  far  toward  dispelling.  By  this,  and  one  or 
two  more  visits,  the  old  relationship  was  resumed ;  and, 
though  she  was  this  time  unconscious  of  it,  Marion  served 
again  in  her  old  role  of  stop-gap :  dispeller  of  Virginia's 
loneliness. 

The  succeeding  days  were  long  and  dull.  Virginia 
had  passed  many  like  them  in  that  house,  but  never  with 
the  same  memories  and  the  same  dreams  to  make  them 
difficult.  If,  up  to  the  hour  of  his  departure,  she  had 
rather  played  at  being  in  love  with  Atkinson,  or,  perhaps, 
just  at  having  him  in  love  with  her,  she  very  soon  per- 
ceived that  separation  had  turned  that  pretense  into  real- 
ity. A  hundred  times  a  day  she  found  her  heart  flaming 
up  at  thought  of  him.  A  hundred  times  a  day  she 
yearned  to  look  at  him,  to  hear  his  voice,  to  feel  the  pres- 

"3 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


sure  of  his  hand.  She  was  uneasy  and  restless.  All  her 
pretty,  natural  pallor  came  back,  and  with  it  a  little  more 
that  was  not  natural.  She  even  lost  something  of  her 
round  contour,  but  not  enough  to  make  it  noticeable. 

By  the  time  April  came  in  Virginia  found  that  there 
was  another  consolation,  another  occupation,  given  her. 
On  the  second  of  the  month,  two  weeks  after  he  had 
left,  she  had  her  first  letter  from  Philip.  It  was  a  curi- 
ous epistle :  like,  and  yet  unlike,  the  man.  He,  at  any  rate, 
had  never  before  written  one  like  it.  It  had  been  done 
not  at  all  for  effect,  but  because  he  found,  to  his  aston- 
ishment, that  she  had  fastened  herself  so  upon  both  mind 
and  heart  that  he  could  not  resist  the  desire  to  give  ex- 
pression to  some  of  the  thoughts  that  he  dared  not  con- 
fide to  any  acquaintance,  much  less  his  staid  companion, 
Fiirst.  And  the  mailing  of  it,  after  long  consideration, 
was  due  to  a  wish  to  make  her  think  about  him.  He  would 
have  been  well  satisfied  had  he  known  how  that  letter  was 
received :  how  Virginia  pored  over  it,  read  and  re-read 
it,  and  came  to  know  the  words  so  by  heart  that  she  never 
perceived  how  some  of  them  had  been  worn  illegible.  It 
began  abruptly :  it  ended  without  signature.  But  it  was 
a  love-letter,  and  she  asked  no  more  than  that. 

"Phcenix,  March  2gth. 

"I  have  tried  for  days  not  to  zvrite  to  you.  I  know 
that  it  is  better  not;  but  I  am  in  extremis.  /  yield  as 
easily  to  the  memory  of  you  as  I  have  yielded  to  your 
presence.  You  are  the  first  woman  to  have  conquered 
me: — miserable  I,  that  I  should  say  it!    Hozv  shall  I  find 

114 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


words  in  which  to  express  all  that  I  dare  not  say  to  you? 
Three  little  ones  are  at  the  point  of  my  pen,  as  a  thou- 
sand times  they  have  lain  upon  my  lips.  Have  I  said 
them,  incomparable  Virginia f  " 

He  had,  indeed,  said  them,  and  yet  the  woman  was 
loath  to  let  herself  believe  it,  so  anxious  was  she  that  it 
should  be  so.  She  had  come  to  want  them  so  much,  his 
three  words,  from  himself,  to  hear  them  spoken  in  his  low, 
intimate  tone,  to  know  that  he  said  them  because,  in  truth, 
he  could  not  help  it,  that  an  evasion  like  that  in  the  letter 
could  not  now  satisfy  her  desire. 

It  was  a  week  before  she  actually  sent  an  answer  to 
him.  How  many  letters  she  had  written  in  that  time  it 
would  be  vain  to  count.  She  had  discovered  the  last  de- 
light of  loneliness ;  and  she  indulged  it  thoroughly.  Yet 
of  all  the  letters  that  she  allowed  herself  to  write,  the  one 
that  she  finally  sent  was  the  briefest,  the  coldest,  the  most 
dignified,  the  only  one  in  which  she  had  not  fully  re- 
vealed her  mind,  or,  rather,  her  heart.  Atkinson, 
receiving  it,  was  first  thrown  into  consternation,  and  then 
seized  with  an  ungovernable  desire  to  drop  everything 
and  go  to  her,  make  her  admit  that  she  felt  more  than 
was  in  that  letter.  Nothing  could  so  adroitly  have  fur- 
thered her  cause  with  him  as  just  those  unresponsive 
lines. 

Van  Studdiford  had  done  a  wiser  thing  than  he  knew 
when  he  sent  Henry  Fiirst  West  with  his  erratic  cousin. 
Furst  came  of  German  parentage,  and  had  in  him  all  the 
sober  steadiness  of  that  blood,  and  all  the  business  ardor 

"5 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


of  his  American  technical  training.  Nothing  in  the  world 
so  interested  him,  so  satisfied  his  very  soul,  as  the  plans 
for  the  new  factory  in  Phcenix,  and  the  details  of  its  con- 
struction. Nothing  could  hope  to  rival  these  in  his  mind 
except,  possibly,  the  equally  engrossing  idea  of  a  similar 
project  for  Sacramento.  Philip,  at  heart  entirely  uninter- 
ested in  the  whole  thing,  hating  Phoenix,  with  its  big- 
voiced  men  and  badly-dressed  women,  his  heart  and  brain 
filled  with  other  thoughts,  other  plans,  still  dared  not,  in 
his  companion's  presence,  let  himself  go  as  if  he  had  been 
alone,  terminate  Charles'  work  in  the  shortest  possible 
period,  failing  with  it  entirely  if  need  be,  and  rush  back 
to  the  spot  where  his  own  interests  lay. 

Atkinson,  studying  carefully  his  companion's  charac- 
ter, searching  eagerly  for  a  single  weak  point  in  his  armor, 
found  none.  Furst  was  impregnable  to  Philip  because  he 
had  not  one  trait,  one  thought,  one  sympathy  in  common 
with  the  erotic  man,  the  charm  of  whose  presence,  how- 
ever, even  he  dimly  perceived.  Thus  it  came  about  that 
Atkinson  was  forced  into  what  was,  to  him,  an  entirely 
new  plan  of  procedure.  He  laid  renewed  siege  to  Vir- 
ginia by  letter ;  and,  in  the  difficulties  and  finesse  of  that 
pursuit,  found  welcome  relief  from  the  tedium  of  "  busi- 
ness," by  which  he  was  surrounded.  Writing — the  writing 
of  artistic  letters — is  an  art  in  which  few  men,  even  pro- 
fessional authors,  are,  or  can  be,  proficient.  Hitherto  At- 
kinson, incomparable  with  his  tongue,  had  made  it  a  rule 
of  his  career  never  to  commit  himself  on  paper.  But  at  last 
there  was  a  situation  where  he  was  too  much  in  earnest 
to  weigh  possibilities  in  the  balance.     In  the  beginning 

ii6 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


he  found  himself  clumsy  with  his  pen,  and  determined, 
forthwith,  to  conquer  that  failing.  At  night,  while 
Heinrich  pored  steadily  over  columns  of  figures  and 
problems  in  strength  of  beam,  balance  and  measurement, 
Philip  launched  his  craft  and  set  sail  on  the  ocean  of  con- 
sidered words.  The  occupation  soon  disclosed  delights  of 
its  own.  Here,  at  last,  was  something  of  the  present  in 
which  a  deep,  vibrating  interest  might  be  taken.  He  saw 
his  difficulty  at  once:  how,  lacking  the  old,  dependable 
adjuncts  of  background,  situation,  look,  tone,  gesture,  he 
must  create,  out  of  ink  on  paper,  the  mood  that  he  was 
past  master  at  bringing  to  life  in  the  old  way.  Between 
the  first  of  April  and  the  last  of  June  he  produced — 
and  mailed — a  series  of  letters  that  fully  accomplished 
his  purpose.  Gradually,  little  by  little,  Virginia's  replies 
took  on  his  tone.  Little  by  little,  like  a  moonflower  at 
dusk,  she  opened  to  him,  till  he  became  almost  reconciled 
to  the  delays  that  kept  him  in  the  unromantic  West. 

Virginia,  however,  was  scarcely  so  contented  with  the 
continued  absence.  More  than  once,  by  an  ill-considered 
slip,  Philip's  letters  betrayed  something  that  the  man  him- 
self could  have  kept  from  her  had  they  been  together :  the 
fact  of  his  supreme  selfishness:  that  what  he  was  doing 
was  for  his  own  vanity's  sake,  rather  than  for  her,  un- 
selfishly. Three  or  four  times  an  ill-turned  phrase  exposed 
some  underlying  motive ;  and  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
soul  of  the  man— oh,  warped,  shrunken,  imprisoned  soul, 
so  well  concealed! — ^and  by  the  shock  was  driven  to 
silence,  till  a  perfect  letter  drew  her  back  into  the  old 
faith,  the  real  love,  that  were  hers.    And  also,  now  and 

117 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


then,  when  the  new  art  lessened  a  little,  he  showed  her  a 
genuine  desire,  a  wish  to  come  back,  a  longing  to  see  her, 
hear  her  voice,  which  often  engulfed  him  and  all  his  un- 
conscious sophistry.  For,  even  at  this  time,  so  far  as  it 
lay  in  him  really  to  love,  Philip  Atkinson  loved  his 
cousin's  wife :  not  deeply  enough  to  break  her  bonds  and 
take  her  away  forever;  nor  bravely  enough  to  renounce 
her  absolutely;  but  more  entirely  and  more  unselfishly 
than  he  had  ever  loved  any  of  the  thousand  and  one 
women  of  his  career ;  and  so  recklessly  that  he  was  never 
to  love  a  woman  after  her. 

In  the  middle  of  April  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merrill  returned 
to  Chicago  from  their  long,  useless  wanderings;  and, 
since  their  house  was  occupied,  they  took  an  apartment 
in  the  Metropole  till  summer  should  drive  them  East 
again.  Virginia,  to  her  great  joy,  gained  permission  from 
Charles,  who  had  kept  her  close  with  him  at  Grangeford, 
to  go  to  her  Mother  for  a  fortnight.  The  two  weeks  were 
not,  however,  wholly  joyful.  Virginia  beheld  her  Father 
a  pathetic  mental  wreck :  saw  her  Mother  startlingly  aged. 
And,  on  her  own  side,  Mrs.  Merrill  found  that  she  scarcely 
knew  her  daughter.  Through  grief,  through  loneliness, 
through  another  unguessed  cause,  the  pretty,  delicate 
child  had  grown  into  a  woman  whom  the  Mother,  a  little 
blinded  by  love  and  by  solicitude,  could  not  fathom. 

Nevertheless,  the  days  in  town  fled  far  more  rapidly 
than  those  in  sleepy  Grangeford.  There  were  many  meet- 
ings with  old  friends.  There  were  theatres,  dressmakers, 
shops.  And  Virginia  saw  her  Mother's  face  grow  young 
again  in  the  momentary  release  from  care.     Her  visit, 

ii8 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


moreover,  was  lengthened,  little  by  little,  till,  by  the  time 
she  returned  into  her  empty  idleness,  it  was  mid-May. 

Grangeford  in  May  and  June  was,  perhaps,  at  its  best. 
The  keen  vitality  of  the  newly-revived  year  had  been  worn 
away  by  no  oppressive  heat.  Society  was  inspired  by 
fresh  white  gowns  and  shady  hats  to  teas  and  tennis- 
parties,  even  picnics  and  a  dance  or  two  at  the  new  golf 
club,  across  the  river.  And  Virginia  entered  into  these 
frivolities  with  all  her  grace :  rejoicing  in  every  hour  that 
could  be  urged  into  a  little  faster  flight,  falling  asleep 
each  night  in  the  knowledge  that  she  had  been  brought 
one  day  nearer  to  Philip. 

It  was  with  this  thought  of  him  whose  absence  had 
taught  her  love,  that  Virginia's  mind  was  constantly  oc- 
cupied. She  gave  little  thought,  no  understanding,  to  the 
man  so  close  to  her,  who  loved  her  lawfully.  And  yet, 
during  those  weeks  that  followed  her  return  home,  her 
husband  did  much  which  deserved,  at  least,  some  notice. 
If  one  could  have  analyzed  him  closely,  Van  Studdiford's 
two  years  of  married  life  would  probably  be  shown  to 
have  changed  him  almost  as  much  as  his  wife.  In  the 
beginning,  he  had  been  infatuated  with  the  little  girl  he 
had  married,  and  took  her  quiescence  for  shy  affection. 
The  months  before  the  coming  of  the  baby  brought  a  dis- 
illusionment so  thorough  that  afterward,  when  his  wife 
was  normal  again,  Charles  was  glad  to  try  to  excuse 
everything  on  the  ground  of  mental  disturbance.  The 
summer  before,  though  he  had  now  and  then  stolen  a 
week-day  hour  or  a  Saturday  afternoon  from  the  factory, 
he  had  been  wrapped  in  work  which  only  he  could  do; 

119 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


and  his  recreation  had  been  found  in  the  performances  of 
his  two-year-olds,  which  he  had  this  year  entered  at  the 
Harlem  and  Washington  Park  tracks.  The  starthng  acci- 
dent of  November,  which  had  thrown  his  wife  back  into 
such  an  apathy  of  grief,  brought  him  rather  disappoint- 
ment than  sorrow ;  and,  during  the  winter  months,  he  had 
made  only  a  few  easily  discouraged  attempts  to  waken 
Virginia's  interest  in  himself.  But  now,  at  last,  he  de- 
termined to  learn  the  attitude  of  this  woman  who,  from 
the  very  first,  had  concealed  her  thoughts  from  him  so 
sedulously.  The  real  reason  of  that  concealment,  her  al- 
most disgust  with  his  personality,  never,  for  a  moment, 
entered  his  mind. 

For  six  weeks  then,  during  the  latter  half  of  May  and 
the  whole  of  June,  Charles  played  the  lover  to  his  wife: 
awkwardly,  for  he  was  never  a  woman's  man,  sincerely, 
but — unsuccessfully.  To  her  astonishment  he  now  made  a 
point  of  going  to  all  the  informal  entertainments  that  her 
continued  mourning  allowed.  One  or  two  days  in  the 
week  he  remained  at  home  after  luncheon,  to  take  her 
driving  in  his  sulky,  or  the  lightest  runabout:  amuse- 
ments that  she  dreaded,  and  avoided  when  she  could. 
More  than  once  he  even  proposed  their  going  into  Chi- 
cago on  a  Saturday,  doing  a  theatre,  staying  overnight 
at  the  Annex,  and  returning  on  the  Sunday  morning 
train.  This,  after  much  urging  on  his  part,  was  tried 
once.  But  Virginia  was  not  greatly  amused,  and  Van 
Studdiford  found  himself  suddenly  longing  for  some  of 
his  old  haunts  and  companions.  The  experiment  was  not 
repeated. 

120 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


After  several  weeks  of  this  effort,  without  having 
been  able  to  perceive  that  he  was  making  the  slightest  im- 
pression on  his  wife,  Charles  began  to  relax.  He  was  tired 
of  his  exertions ;  but  he  had  seen  nothing  to  rouse  a  qualm 
of  jealousy.  He  never  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  outside  of 
one  of  Atkinson's  letters.  His  conclusion  was,  simply, 
that  Virginia  had  no  emotional  nature ;  and,  with  a  mental 
shrug,  he  turned  to  his  work  again — after  one  Saturday 
night,  alone,  in  Chicago—"  on  business." 

By  some  evil  coincidence,  Charles'  attentions  to  Vir- 
ginia ceased  just  at  the  moment  when  a  letter,  dated 
June  26,  mailed  from  Sacramento,  brought  Mrs.  Van  Stud- 
diford  word  that  while  she  read  it  the  writer  would  be 
on  his  way  Eastward,  to  her.  Philip,  his  work  accom- 
plished, had  left  San  Francisco,  by  the  Northwestern 
Limited,  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  June.  It  was  the  year  be- 
fore the  institution  of  the  72-hour  trains ;  but  good  luck 
should  carry  him  into  Chicago  on  the  afternoon  of  Sun- 
day, July  third ;  and,  in  any  case,  he  would  reach  Grange- 
ford  by  Monday.  It  was  thus  that  Virginia  calculated. 
There  was,  of  course,  a  possibility  that  Philip  could  get  to 
Grangeford  by  Sunday  evening;  but  on  this  idea  she 
would  not  allow  herself  to  build.  No.  On  Monday  she 
should  see  him,  and  then — let  the  whole  world  around 
her  perish.    Her  need  of  it  was  gone. 

From  the  moment  of  her  receipt  of  that  letter,  on 
Thursday,  it  would  be  hard  to  say  whether  Virginia  was 
happiest  or  most  miserable.  Never  had  the  hours  crawled 
so  slowly.  Never  had  the  future  taken  on  so  exquisite 
a  rose-tint.  She  was  twenty  years  old;  and  she  was  in 
0  121 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


love  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  She  was  not  old  enough, 
she  was  not  thoughtful  enough,  to  question  her  mental 
state,  to  understand  the  wrong  of  it  and  the  necessity  for 
its  banishment.  What  wonder  that  Lucy  Markle  stared 
in  admiration  at  the  sudden  change  in  her  face,  the  bril- 
liance of  her  coloring,  the  dazzling  light  in  her  eyes,  the 
readiness  of  her  hysterical  laughter  ?  Or  what  wonder  that 
the  maid  also  stood  aghast  at  her  mistress'  caprices,  her 
sudden  fits  of  unaccountable  ill-temper,  her  impatience, 
and  her  sudden  repentances  ? 

Nevertheless,  the  three  days  passed — Thursday,  Fri- 
day and  Saturday.  On  Sunday  morning  Virginia  sud- 
denly realized  that  she  did  expect  Philip  that  night : 
that  if  he  did  not  come  she  should  be  in  utter  despair. 
The  morning  rose,  hot  and  golden.  At  the  breakfast 
table  Charles  unexpectedly  announced  that  he  should 
leave  early  in  the  afternoon  for  his  horse  farm,  which  lay 
twelve  miles  south  of  Grangeford ;  and  he  failed  to  sug- 
gest his  wife's  accompanying  him.  Virginia's  heart  leaped 
within  her.  He  would  be  gone  all  afternoon :  far  into  the 
evening!  She  might — receive  Philip — alone!  But 
Charles'  next  words  caused  her  face  to  flame  and  her 
heart  to  sink,  unaccountably : 

"  By  the  way,  it's  just  possible  that  Atkinson  may  turn 
up  this  afternoon.  He  wired  me  on  Thursday  that  he  was 
leaving  'Frisco.  Put  him  up  as  usual,  of  course,  if  he 
gets  here.  To-morrow's  a  holiday,  and  I  can  go  over  his 
report  with  him  then. — I've  kept  Fiirst  out  there  to  see 
operations  through." 

Virginia  made  some  sort  of  reply,  she  scarcely  knew 

122 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


what.  The  rest  of  the  meal  was  silent.  She  sat  crumbling 
her  bread,  and  trying  to  reason  herself  out  of  caring  be- 
cause Philip  had  telegraphed  Charles  and  not  her.  More- 
over, she  was  angry,  ridiculously  angry,  that  the  stout, 
red-faced  man  opposite  her,  should  be  in  a  state  of  such 
supreme  indifference  to  that  for  which  she  had  been  living 
for  many  weeks. 

The  day  increased  in  heat ;  and  Virginia,  whose  nerves 
were  in  a  precarious  condition,  went  to  her  room  imme- 
diately after  dinner,  with  an  unpretended  headache.  At 
three  o'clock  the  sound  of  wheels  told  her  that  Charles 
had  left  the  house;  and  she  sighed,  deeply,  with  relief. 
A  little  later  Marion  Hunt  telephoned  to  invite  her  to  tea. 
But  Lucy  answered  at  once  that  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  was 
in  bed  with  a  sick  headache,  and  could  see  no  one,  much 
less  go  out;  for  Lucy  was  perfectly  aware  of  what  the 
evening  promised.  Virginia  had  lain  wide  awake,  on  her 
couch,  for  an  hour  or  more.  But  towards  four  o'clock 
she  dozed,  started  up,  and  then  went  soundly  to  sleep, 
not  waking  till  six,  when  Lucy  appeared  with  a  little 
supper-tray. 

On  learning  the  time,  Virginia  roused  herself.  Philip 
might  have  come  by  the  five  o'clock  train.  It  was  the  one 
by  which  she  had  instinctively  expected  him.  There  was 
now  but  one  more  by  which  he  could  reach  Grangeford 
to-night:  the  one  arriving  at  7.10.  After  much  thought 
and  hesitation,  she  sent  an  order  to  the  stables  to  have 
this  train  met.  She  would  not  go  herself.  Then  she 
drank  half  a  cup  of  tea,  and  bade  Lucy  dress  her. 

It  was  a  quarter  past  seven  when  Virginia  wandered 
123 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


out  into  the  orchard  that  ran  down  to  the  river  at  the  back 
of  the  place.  The  train  was  in :  she  had  heard  its  whistle. 
— But  Philip,  of  course,  had  not  come.  It  was  absurd  to 
suppose  that  he  had. — Slowly,  her  white  gown  trailing 
about  her  on  the  smooth  turf,  she  passed  back  and  forth, 
in  the  pretty  half-light,  the  evening  wind  bathing  her  hot 
temples  with  gentle  coolness.  Now  she  heard  a  horse's 
step  on  the  gravel. — The  groom  was  returning — alone? 
Stopping  quite  still,  one  hand  upon  a  knot  of  the  old  tree- 
trunk  beside  her,  she  paused,  her  heart  beating  violently. 
Ah !  The  runabout  was  entering  the  stable !  He  had  not 
come!  He  had  not  come! — And  yet,  it  had  stopped  at 
the  house  first. — How  should  he  know  where  she  awaited 
him? — Trembling  in  every  limb,  she  turned  and  began 
to  walk  again  toward  the  river,  stepping  noiselessly  that 
she  might  hear  the  least  sound  behind  her.  When  she  was 
on  the  edge  of  the  steep  little  bank,  she  could  no  longer 
keep  her  face  from  the  direction  in  which  he  might 
come.  Turning  again,  her  heart  gave  one  great  leap, 
and  was  still. 

Philip  was  there,  among  the  trees,  walking  rapidly 
toward  her.  She  saw  his  face,  his  bare  head,  his  hair 
slightly  ruffled ;  for  he  had  paused  for  no  toilet.  She  saw 
his  smile.  Then,  with  a  low  exclamation,  she  ran  to  him, 
would  have  flung  herself  into  his  arms.  But  he  stopped 
this,  only  taking  her  two  hands  into  his  and  smiling  ten- 
derly :  searching  her  face,  her  soul,  with  his  all-penetrating 
eyes,  till,  as  of  old,  she  felt  her  heart  bared  to  him,  and 
trembled  with  the  delight  of  it.  It  was  all  Philip !  All 
the  old  Philip !    What  other  man  in  the  world  could  have 

124 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


met  such  a  situation  and  not  used  it  up  within  the  first 
five  minutes? 

Truly,  none  but  he.  And,  alas,  that  it  was  so  I  The 
situation  was  not  used  up  for  many  hours.  But  by  that 
time  much  else  had  been  begun. 


125 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  week  following  the  return  of  Atkinson,  the  end 
of  the  first  week  of  July  and  the  beginning  of  the  second, 
would,  to  an  onlooker  knowing  all  the  facts,  have  been 
the  decisive  period,  the  turning-point,  in  the  history  of 
Virginia's  life.  But  to  Virginia  it  passed  in  a  mist.  To 
Atkinson  it  was  the  expected  reward  for  his  recent  literary 
efforts — and  something  more.  In  fine,  it  was  the  crude 
result  of  a  bartered  marriage.  But,  through  it,  the  one 
chiefly  concerned  neither  discovered  nor  suspected  any- 
thing. He  was  very  busy  at  this  time,  was  Van  Stud- 
diford,  with  reports  and  estimates  and  plans  relating 
to  Phoenix  and  Sacramento.  His  wife  was  accustomed 
to  take  care  of  herself.  Philip  was  at  the  factory  every 
day.  He,  Charles,  sat  up  very  late  o'  nights  in  his  library, 
at  work.  But  this  was  not  to  be  asked  of  a  mere  salaried 
man;  and  it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  inquire  into  his 
cousin's  evenings.  When  he  had  finished  his  considera- 
tions for  the  night,  Charles  was  wont  to  go  upstairs  to 
his  own  room,  glad  of  his  bed  and  of  speedy  sleep. 

To  Virginia  and  Philip  the  evenings  were  long  idyls, 
spent  always  together,  beside  the  river,  or  in  the  bit  of 
woodland  south  of  the  Van  Studdiford  place.  Here  Vir- 
ginia took  subtle  lessons,  and  proved  herself  a  pupil  all 
too  apt.    Atkinson  was  now  constantly  discovering  fresh 

126 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


delights  in  her.  And  the  exceeding  danger  of  the  later 
hours  only  added  a  last  zest  to  this  situation  of  situations. 

Lucy  was  become  their  whole  dependence  now;  for 
into  Lucy's  room  the  back  staircase  all  but  entered.  Then 
there  was  but  the  boudoir  to  be  traversed  till  he  reached 
her  room,  the  destination.  This  route,  passed  the  first 
time  for  farewell,  was  become  too  well-trodden  now.  It 
was  almost  more  than  they  could  have  hoped  for,  that 
Lucy  should  have  been  what  she  was :  that,  through  every- 
thing, not  one  word  against  her  mistress  ever  escaped 
her  lips,  even  below  stairs.  Justice  found  in  her  an  un- 
willing pawn ;  and,  in  the  end,  was  obliged  to  cast  her 
aside  as  useless  for  his  iron  purpose.  At  this  period,  as 
always,  the  maid,  anxious,  frightened  though  she  was 
by  day  as  well  as  by  night,  did  all  that  she  was  told,  left 
necessary  doors  ajar,  and,  after  Philip's  first  passage, 
inward,  even  tried  to  sleep.  But  usually  her  heart  was  in 
too  great  a  tumult.  For  had  she  not  taken  color  from  her 
lady,  and  laid  away,  in  a  precarious  place,  one  of  those 
long-dead  meteor  roses  marking  the  first  pain  of  the 
tragedy  of  Virginia? 

One  morning  of  the  second  week  after  his  return, 
dawn,  creeping  stealthily  in  at  Atkinson's  windows  on 
the  floor  above  Virginia's  rooms,  failed  to  surprise  him. 
The  room  was  empty :  the  bed  unpressed  by  any  form.  At 
a  few  minutes  past  four,  however,  came  softest  steps 
along  the  hall.  The  door  opened  noiselessly,  and  Philip 
slipped  in.  He  made  no  move  toward  the  bed.  Push- 
ing a  Morris  chair  to  the  open  south  window,  he  took  his 
pipe  from  the  bureau,  filled  and  lighted  it,  and  then, 

127 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


settling  back  luxuriously  and  crossing  his  feet  before 
him,  mingled  the  fragrance  of  his  tobacco  with  the  in- 
cense of  the  dawn. 

The  morning,  all  rose-and-gold,  tinged  with  the  fresh- 
ness of  dark  hours,  still  promised  heat.  The  ensuing  day 
would  be  breathless.  But  as  yet  the  light  advanced  only 
by  exquisite,  reluctant  stages.  Atkinson,  heedful  of  any 
beauty,  stared  out,  meditatively,  at  the  expanse  of  green 
tree-tops  before  him,  saw  the  great  pageant  spread  out 
in  the  eastern  sky,  heard  the  bird-voices  in  their  long 
crescendo  from  earliest  twitter  to  full-throated  fortissimo, 
and  let  them  tinge  his  mood. 

And  yet  Philip  was  scarcely  looking  or  listening.  He 
was  in  communion  with  himself:  was  making  a  deter- 
mined effort  to  learn  his  situation.  Events  of  the  past 
week  had  moved  so  rapidly  that  he  had  had  little  time  to 
consider  the  taking  of  any  single  step.  Now,  after  a 
wonderful  night,  in  the  coolness  of  passion,  he  tried  to 
think. 

Never  before  had  his  situation  been  so. difficult;  never 
had  he  had  so  little  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  himself. 
He  was  doing  a  dastardly  thing;  and  yet  the  affair  in  its 
fulness  had  hardly  been  premeditated.  Long  ago,  when 
he  had  been  quite  unaware  of  her  ignorance  of  love  or  the 
methods  of  flirtation,  he  had  played  with  and  upon  Vir- 
ginia. By  degrees,  against  his  own  judgment,  he  had  been 
led,  by  all  but  irresistible  impulse,  into  regrettable  lengths. 
More  and  more,  as  he  advanced,  did  he  become  amazed 
at  the  purity  of  Virginia's  mind,  the  singleness  of  her  pur- 
pose.    Before  these  things  he,  whose  weapons  against 

128 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


experience  were  innumerable,  had  found  himself  defence- 
less. He  had  scarcely  hitherto  perceived  how  far  his  let- 
ters had  committed  him,  so  bent  had  he  been  upon  forc- 
ing her  emotional  side.  He  realized,  too,  this  morning, 
that,  even  after  his  return,  he  might  have  avoided  what 
he  had  done.  Mistake  after  mistake  rose  from  the  im- 
mediate past  and  confronted  him.  Had  he  actually  lost 
all  of  his  old-time  cunning,  prudence,  foresight?  Surely 
not !    Surely  there  was  a  reason  for  this  behavior ! 

The  question  asked,  was  suddenly  answered.  As  At- 
kinson puffed,  reflectively,  at  his  pipe,  his  eyes  grew  soft. 
There  was  rising  before  him  a  vision :  something  that  he 
had  brought  to  the  perception  of  many  women :  something 
that  he  himself  had  never  thought  to  see.  He  had  been 
trying  to  consider  this  affair  in  the  old,  calculating  way ; 
but  he  knew  now  that  this  was  impossible.  He  had  pitted 
himself  once  too  often  against  his  mighty  opponent.  Pas- 
sion might  be  played  with,  long  and  safely.  Love,  might 
not.  And  to  Atkinson,  all  undeserving,  had  been  given  the 
greatest  thing:  that  which  all  pretend  to,  that  of  which 
scarce  one  person  in  ten  thousand  really  knows  a  single 
detail.  The  love-stories  of  the  ages  are  not  many !  Paris 
and  Helen,  Launcelot  and  Guinevere,  Tristan  and  Iseult, 
Abelard  and  Heloise,  Paolo  and  Francesca,  Dante  and 
Beatrice,  Sophie  of  Celle  and  Von  Konigsmarck  (how 
familiar  are  they  all!),  just  these,  in  history;  and  none 
knows  why  they  are  handed  down,  from  generation  to 
generation,  not  as  stories  of  crime  and  disgrace,  but  as 
heroic  tragedies,  fit  subjects  for  the  epics  woven  about 
them  all. 

129 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Of  these  Philip  was  not  thinking,  in  this  July  dawn. 
But  he  was  trying  to  grapple  with  the  great  element  that 
inspired  them  all,  trying  to  pierce  the  glittering  mists 
that  hid  both  reason  and  judgment  from  him :  trying  hard 
to  understand  what  inevitable  result  the  future  must  bring, 
and,  in  that  future,  what  his  attitude  should  be.  But  all 
these  things  were  still  withheld.  How  could  he  determine 
that,  after  reasoning  with  himself,  he  must  reason  with 
the  woman,  must  show  her  the  swift-approaching  conse- 
quences of  their  present  life?  Reason  with  Virginia! 
Move  cold-bloodedly  from  cause  to  effect  with  the  woman 
he  was  ready  to  deliver  up  his  soul  for?  Poison  her 
mind,  in  the  least  degree,  with  the  degrading  philosophy 
of  discretion  and  calculated  deceit?  Philip  recoiled  at 
the  thought.  He  had  led  her,  perhaps,  into  wickedness ; 
even — into  crime.  But  the  facts  and  their  weight  he  pre- 
ferred to  make  his  own  consideration.  He  could  not  allow 
her  to  know  his  anxiety.  He  loved  her;  and  love  had, 
in  a  day,  accomplished  what  years  had  not  taught.  His 
supreme  quality,  his  selfishness,  was  brought  home  to  him 
at  last. 

Having  come  to  no  conclusion,  having  failed,  abso- 
lutely, to  find  any  solution  for  his  problem,  Atkinson 
finally  left  his  place,  put  away  his  pipe,  threw  oflF  his  robe, 
and,  as  the  first  hot  sunbeam  shot  into  the  room,  flung 
himself  wearily  into  bed.  Nor  was  anyone  surprised 
when,  six  hours  later,  he  walked  into  the  breakfast-room 
half  an  hour  after  Van  Studdiford  had  finished.  Master 
Philip  had  done  that  sort  of  thing  all  his  life. 

The  midsummer  days  moved  on,  still  dream-wise,  for 
130 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


the  two.  Virginia,  seemingly  untroubled  by  any  scruple 
or  remorse,  ran  the  gamut  of  happiness,  from  languorous 
content  to  wildest  heights  of  surrender.  Philip  adored 
her.  Lucy  watched  over  her,  anxiously,  devotedly.  Van 
Studdiford  was  good-natured,  but  always  at  work.  What 
more  could  she  desire?  She  forgot  Grangeford.  She 
forgot  Marion — poor  Marion,  filled  now  with  mingled 
bitterness  and  yearning.  She  forgot  even  her  Mother, 
who  was  far  out  of  reach,  on  the  Atlantic  coast,  with  her 
wearisome  charge. 

Five  radiant  weeks,  thirty-five  unclouded  days,  were 
given  Virginia  before  there  crept  across  her  heart  the 
first,  unheralded  shadow.  It  was  in  the  early  half  of 
August,  by  Van  Studdiford's  unconscious  arrangement, 
that  the  unpleasant  day  came.  For  many  months,  nay, 
for  a  year  past,  Charles  had  desired  to  take  his  wife  to 
see  his  horse-farm,  his  breeding-stables,  which  were  the 
pride  of  his  life.  More  than  once,  when  every  arrange- 
ment had  been  made,  she  had  refused  to  go ;  for  Virginia 
had  never  had  much  interest  in  horses,  and,  since  her 
marriage,  that  little  feeling  had  dwindled,  because  of 
Charles'  enthusiasm  about  them.  The  excuses  made 
when  such  a  jaunt  was  tentatively  suggested,  had  been 
legion ;  until  at  last,  ashamed,  in  her  own  joy,  to  refuse 
Charles  so  little,  she  quite  unexpectedly  fell  in  with  his 
mild  wish  that  she  drive  out  with  him  on  this  day — Sat- 
urday, the  sixth  of  August.  She  supposed  they  were  to 
go  alone,  and  had  resigned  herself.  But,  later  in  the 
week,  Charles,  remembering  the  old,  suspected  attach- 
ment between  Philip  and  Marion  Hunt,  had  an  inspira- 

131 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


tion,  asked  them  both,  ordered  Carson  to  put  up  an  elab- 
orate luncheon,  got  out  the  drag,  and  started  them  all, 
willy-nilly,  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  driving,  Vir- 
ginia beside  him,  the  other  two  behind. 

In  the  memories  of  three  of  the  four,  that  drive  lin- 
gered as  one  of  the  most  unpleasant  of  their  lives.  The 
morning  was  hot  and  oppressive,  the  roads  very  dusty, 
the  atmosphere  leaden.  Virginia,  separated  from  Philip, 
restless  in  Marion's  watchful  presence,  uneasy,  as  always, 
near  Charles,  was  in  her  unhappiest  mood.  Marion, 
though  she  knew  nothing,  divined  a  good  deal  of  the 
situation  before  she  had  had  time  to  lean  back  in  her 
seat.  She  had  been  for  a  long  time  growing  more  and 
more  hurt  over  Philip's  continued  neglect.  Moreover, 
she  looked  her  very  worst  that  day,  and  knew  it.  Her 
face  was  red  and  peeling  from  much  hatless  golf;  her 
hair  had  refused  to  go  up  properly ;  and  the  pale  blue  of 
her  hat  and  gown  emphasized  every  defect.  Moreover,  she 
had  never  been  wholly  blind  to  the  contrast  presented  be- 
tween her  and  Virginia;  and  it  had  never  been  greater 
than  to-day.  Marion  began  the  drive,  then,  in  a  freezingly 
sarcastic  frame  of  mind;  and  little  occurred  during  the 
following  hour  to  change  it.  Philip,  annoyed  though  he 
was  by  Charles'  happy  tactlessness,  was  still  overwhelm- 
ingly polite  to  his  companion,  refused  to  take  offence  at 
any  of  her  short  answers,  and  might  have  succeeded  in 
bringing  her  out  of  her  mood  had  he  not  permitted  his 
eyes  to  stray  constantly,  and  with  too  readable  looks,  to 
the  figure  of  Virginia  in  front  of  him.  Everyone  of 
these  glances  was  intercepted  by  Marion,  and  everyone 

132 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


of  them  went  through  her  like  a  knife.  They  formed  the 
beginning  of  that  which,  afterwards,  she  could  neither 
forget  nor  forgive.  And  yet,  during  the  two-hour  drive, 
Virginia  never  turned  her  head  toward  the  back  seat.  She 
talked  a  little  to  Charles,  and  otherwise  sat  listening  to 
the  sound  of  Philip's  voice  flowing  on,  smoothly,  in  con- 
versation with  Marion.  Every  tone  of  it  was  a  caress  that 
stung. — Oh,  most  unlucky  day ! 

It  was  exactly  twelve  o'clock  when  they  reached  the 
farm  and  found  Thompson  the  trainer,  his  wife,  two 
daughters,  and  the  eight  hands,  grouped  formally  to  re- 
ceive them.  Then,  for  one  hour,  three  forlorn  figures 
followed  the  delighted  Charles  round  the  great  stables 
and  the  miniature  track,  examined  the  racers  and  the 
trotters,  the  carriage  and  saddle  animals,  admired  the 
order  and  cleanliness  everywhere  prevailing,  gave  the  ex- 
pected praise,  and  at  last,  wearily  relieved,  returned  to 
the  house,  where  luncheon  had  been  spread,  coffee  made, 
and  the  wines  cooled. 

That  excellent  meal  well  deserved  the  attention  given 
it  by  the  four.  Little  by  little,  as  they  ate,  the  stiffness 
between  Virginia  and  Marion  wore  off.  A  little  laughter 
was  heard ;  and  Charles,  having  proposed  several  toasts, 
was  in  the  best  of  humors.  None  of  them  noticed  Thomp- 
son, who  stood  in  the  doorway,  anxiously  surveying  the 
sky.  None  of  them  in  the  least  heeded  the  faint  sounds 
of  heat-thunder  that  growled,  from  time  to  time,  while 
they  ate.  The  East  might  lower  if  it  would:  the  sun 
was  still  out,  and  the  weather  too  unimportant  for 
comment. 

133 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Luncheon  over,  Charles  asked  what  time  the  drag 
should  be  got  ready  again,  received  no  suggestion  from  the 
trio,  and,  because  he  was  greatly  enjoying  his  day,  himself 
ordered  it  for  four  o'clock.  At  the  mention  of  that  hour, 
three  hearts  sank;  but  none  of  the  three  would  express 
disappointment.  And  now  Charles  started  off  with  the 
head  groom  to  go  through  the  records  of  "  Carrier  "  and 
"  Ananias,"  his  trotters ;  and  the  other  three  wandered 
aimlessly  out  of  doors,  with  a  vague  idea  of  killing  the 
next  two  hours  by  an  exploration  of  the  farm. 

The  land  under  Thompson's  management  was  by  no 
means  wholly  devoted  to  horses.  Charles  owned  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  acres  of  excellent  soil  on  either  side 
of  the  Grangeford-Hilton  highway.  Of  this,  not  more 
than  thirty  acres  were  taken  up  by  the  stables,  paddocks 
and  track;  five  more  were  under  Mrs.  Thompson's 
supervision,  in  the  way  of  chicken-runs,  a  dairy,  and 
flower  and  vegetable  gardens.  One  hundred  acres  were 
under  cultivation ;  and  the  last  fifteen,  on  the  south  side 
of  the  road,  were  left  wooded  and  uncleared.  Close  to 
these  woods,  and  bounded  on  the  other  side  by  one  end 
of  the  great  apple  orchard,  stood  a  tiny  cottage  in  which, 
up  to  within  six  weeks,  had  lived  Thompson's  Mother, 
an  ancient  little  old  woman,  vigorous  to  the  last  week  of 
her  life,  and  to  the  end  intolerant  of  the  care  of  the 
daughter-in-law  with  whom  she  would  never  live. 
Toward  the  end  of  June  old  Mrs.  Thompson  had  died. 
She  was  buried  at  Hilton ;  but  her  cottage,  with  its  quaint 
old  furniture — ^the  work  of  pioneer  hands — remained 
exactly  as  it  had  stood  during  her  long  lifetime. 

134 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Through  the  orchard,  across  corn-fields,  into  pasture 
and  bottom-lands,  wandered,  drearily  enough,  Philip, 
Virginia  and  Marion,  until  suddenly,  at  three  o'clock,  it 
became  evident  that  they  must  seek  speedy  shelter  from 
an  imminent  thunder-storm.  They  were  half  a  mile  of 
difficult  walking  from  the  house;  and  two  of  them  were 
looking  around  a  little  anxiously,  when  Virginia,  who  had 
gone  on  ahead  through  the  wood,  spied  the  cottage, 
and,  calling  to  the  others,  ran  toward  it.  She  reached 
the  threshold  some  minutes  before  them ;  and,  not  dream- 
ing of  hesitation,  turned  the  handle  of  the  door,  which 
opened  slowly  before  her.  At  the  same  instant,  straight 
across  the  dark  sky,  came  a  blue,  hissing  flash,  followed 
by  a  crash  and  a  roar  that  brought  screams  from  Marion, 
approaching.  Virginia  had  halted,  suddenly.  It  seemed 
to  her,  for  a  moment,  as  if  the  flash  had  seared  her  heart. 
If  it  had  been  possible  she  would,  then  and  there,  have 
turned  from  that  door  and  faced  the  storm  in  the  open 
field. 

Marion  and  Philip,  however,  were  already  beside  her, 
and  the  man  perceived  the  pallor  of  Virginia's  face. 
Startled,  for  the  instant,  quite  out  of  himself,  he  threw 
his  arm  around  her. 

"Were  you  so  frightened,  dear?"  he  began,  in  the 
low  tone  always  used  toward  her. 

But  Virginia,  feeling  Marion's  eyes  in  her  back, 
quickly  put  him  away,  and  tried  to  laugh.  "  The  sud- 
denness of  the  noise  startled  me,"  she  said.  "  And  I — I 
don't  quite  like  to  come  in  here  alone." 

"  What  a  quaint  place  it  is ! "  returned  Marion,  in  a 

135 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


forced  voice.    But  her  eyes  were  fixed  fast  upon  the  other 
two. 

The  Uttle  rooms  were  all  but  dark ;  for  the  storm  had 
increased  rapidly,  and  blue-black  clouds  hid  the  entire 
sky.  Virginia  sank  down  upon  a  chair  beside  the  win- 
dow, and,  with  her  hand  on  the  sill,  looked  out  at  the 
gushing  sheets  of  rain.  She  was  in  the  strangest  state 
of  mind.  She  felt  no  fear  whatever  of  the  storm,  and 
yet  her  agitation  increased,  momentarily.  The  room 
with  its  stiff,  still  furniture,  the  faintly  musty  odor  of  a 
place  unused,  the  breathlessness  of  the  air  within,  the 
furious  rushing  of  wind  and  water  without,  all  these, 
or  none  of  them,  combined  to  raise  within  her  a  feeling 
of  unutterable  desolation,  a  sense  of  imprisonment,  as 
overpowering  as  it  was  unreasonable.  And  all  the  time 
she  was  also  under  the  dreamy  spell  of  knowing  this  place 
intimately,  of  having  lived  there  through  innumerable 
lonely  hours. 

Philip,  puzzled  by  her  manner,  afraid,  because  of 
Marion's  presence,  to  betray  his  anxiety,  stood  nearby, 
gazing  steadily  into  the  neglected  yard.  Marion  was 
further  back,  behind  them  both,  watching  both,  all  the 
bitterness  in  her  heart  expressed  in  her  eyes,  could  either 
of  the  others  have  read  them  then. 

They  were  obliged  to  remain  in  the  room  for  half  an 
hour  before  the  gush  of  water  ceased  and  the  sky  light- 
ened. Then,  regardless  of  the  state  of  the  paths  and  the 
road,  they  set  out,  hurriedly,  for  the  farmhouse,  to  be 
met,  halfway,  by  Thompson  and  Charles  with  rubbers, 
umbrellas,  and  an  old  mackintosh  or  two. 

136 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


The  return  drive  was  not  wholly  a  pleasure  even  to 
Charles,  who  began  at  last  to  perceive  that  the  day  was 
not  the  thorough  success  he  had  believed  it  to  be.  And 
when,  at  a  quarter  to  six,  Marion  was  finally  left  at  her 
own  door,  there  was  a  general  sigh  of  relief  that  the  whole 
thing  was  over. 

And  yet — was  it  over  ?  Was  the  unpleasant  impression 
left  by  the  day  one  that  would  also  disappear  with  it ;  or 
was  it  more  permanent?  With  Philip  and  Virginia  all 
unpleasantness  was,  doubtless,  fleeting.  Alone  with  each 
other,  what  unhappy  memory  could  remain?  But  with 
Marion  Hunt  this  one  day  of  the  summer  on  which  she 
had  been  with  Atkinson,  must  necessarily  be  graven  on 
her  mind.  A  year  ago,  Marion  had  been  as  certain  as  all 
Grangeford  was  that  Philip  would  marry  her.  Surely, 
surely,  his  manner  could  have  meant  nothing  less! 
And,  though  he  had  now  dropped  her,  absolutely,  insult- 
ingly, without  a  word,  without  the  suggestion  of  a  reason, 
he  had  still  done  it  so  much  in  his  own,  incomparable 
way,  had,  involuntarily,  left  so  perfect  an  impression  of 
a  man  regretfully  relinquishing  all  his  hope  of  happiness 
for  some  unguessed  but  too  valid  reason,  that  she  had 
never  yet  been  quite  able  to  abandon  the  belief  that  he 
must,  in  time,  come  back  to  her. 

But  after  the  day  at  the  horse-farm  Marion  knew, 
at  last,  that  he  would  never  come  back.  Her  eyes,  sharp- 
ened by  loneliness  and  waiting,  told  her  what  would  have 
frightened  Atkinson  had  he  realized  it.  She  did  not 
make  the  jealous  mistake  of  putting  all  the  blame  of  her 
great  loss  upon  Virginia.    Atkinson  had  betrayed  himself 

10  137 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


far  too  thoroughly  for  that,  at  the  door  of  the  cottage. 
He  was  in  love — for  the  moment — with  Van  Studdi ford's 
wife.  Thus  Marion  expressed  it  to  herself.  And  in  the 
embittered  cruelty  of  that  little  sentence,  all  the  affection 
she  had  felt  for  her  former  schoolmate  died,  forever. 

There  was  not  more  intentional  malice  in  Marion  than 
in  the  average  woman ;  but  she  had  also  a  woman's  other 
qualities.  It  was,  therefore,  in  all  probability  by  her  that 
Rumor  was  unchained  and  let  fly  through  Grangeford. 
Open  gossip,  conversing  on  street-corners  about  Virginia 
Merrill,  there  was  none.  Her  name  was  very  rarely  men- 
tioned. And  yet — every  wise  Mother  in  the  town  believed 
she  understood  perfectly  the  state  of  affairs  at  the  Van 
Studdiford  house:  believed,  such  is  the  way  of  woman, 
that  she  had  divined  it  quite  alone  and  unaided  long  since ; 
and  she  sent  the  children  to  bed  a  quarter  of  an  hour  early 
that  she  might  lay  the  affair  before  her  husband,  who 
first  pooh-poohed,  then  grunted,  and  finally  chewed  the 
end  of  his  cigar  reflectively,  wishing  it  did  not  seem  so 
confounded  womanish  to  get  Sam  Grundy's  opinion  on 
the  subject. 

In  the  next  four  months  Virginia,  had  she  looked  for 
them,  would  have  found  many  ominous  signs  in  the  faces 
of  the  townspeople.  But  Virginia  did  not  now  take  any 
more  thought  of  her  neighbors  than  had  been  her  custom 
since  coming  to  Grangeford.  She  was  given  entirely  to 
the  consideration  of  her  own  doings.  Living  the  time 
from  September  to  Christmas,  she  believed  herself  happy. 
Looking  back  upon  it,  long,  long  afterward,  she  shud- 
dered at  the  thought  of  her  blindness.    Philip ! — Philip ! — 

138 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Philip ! — Day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  he  was  her  thought. 
He  lived  still  at  the  big  house,  and  yet  he  was  not  with 
her  so  much  as  at  first.  That  madness,  indeed,  was  pos- 
sible neither  to  human  nature  nor  to  natural  surroundings. 
Philip  was  still  her  slave.  There  had  been  no  question, 
in  either  of  their  minds,  as  to  that.  But — ah,  there  were 
now  "  buts  " !  First,  it  was  imperative  that  he  should 
lose  no  ground  with  Van  Studdiford.  Therefore  he 
worked  rather  hard,  rather  faithfully.  Moreover,  Colonel 
Turner,  of  the  first  Illinois  volunteers,  a  great  friend  of 
Philip's,  had  been  urging  him,  ever  since  his  return  from 
Cuba,  to  join  the  regiment;  and  now,  suddenly,  he  was 
offered  a  second  Lieutenant's  commission,  and,  because 
of  a  genuine  interest  in  Cuba,  accepted  it,  and  went  to 
Chicago  every  Friday  evening  to  drill. 

At  this  time,  indeed,  "  Jingoism  "  was  at  its  height  in 
the  middle  West.  It  was  scarcely  possible  for  anyone  to 
avoid  either  partisanship  for  or  aversion  to  the  Cuban 
cause.  And  Philip,  who  had  in  him  the  true  adventurer's 
blood,  betook  himself  to  his  drill  manual  and  tactic  book 
with  real  eagerness.  On  his  drill  nights  he  stayed  in  the 
city,  at  the  apartment  of  his  sister,  returning  to  Grange- 
ford  on  the  morning  train.  And  although  Virginia  had 
no  complaint  to  make  to  him,  her  heart  was  secretly  very 
sore  at  what  seemed  the  beginning  of  separation. 

Moreover,  Virginia  had  now  a  genuine  fear  to  occupy 
her  hours :  the  fear  of  war.  It  seemed  almost  imminent. 
And  suppose  Philip  should  be  obliged  to  go!  Suppose 
Philip  should  die  there,  in  that  wilderness,  alone,  without 
her!     At  least  one   night   every   week  she   now   gave 

139 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


up  to  such  terrors  as  these;  and  they  were  the  harder 
to  endure  in  that  she  refrained  from  mentioning  them 
to  Atkinson  when  he  was  with  her.  Perhaps,  at  this 
time,  when  the  prospect  of  war  was,  after  all,  indefinite, 
had  she  pleaded  well  enough  he  would,  for  her  sake, 
have  thrown  up  his  commission.  For  she  was  still  al- 
most all-powerful  with  him.  But  even  she,  in  her  own 
heart  of  hearts,  could  not  make  herself  imagine  what  the 
thing  that  she  so  vividly  dreaded  would  really  be  like :  or 
even  that  it  could  actually  come  to  pass.  Therefore  Time 
and  her  opportunity  went  by,  and  were  lost. 

The  weeks  had  travelled  far  by  this  time.  Summer 
was  dead;  and,  with  each  day's  approach  to  winter,  the 
nods  of  womenfolk  in  Grangeford  grew  frostier  to  Vir- 
ginia. The  Misses  Heminway  actually  bristled  when  she 
passed  them.  Little  Mrs.  Pattison's  rosy,  wrinkled  face 
was  filled  with  mild  distress;  but  her  gallant  husband, 
mindful  of  a  radiant,  golden  vision  of  the  young  Virginia, 
never  lessened  the  sweep  of  his  old-fashioned  hat.  And 
Madam  Famsworth,  who  was  old  enough,  and  well 
enough  assured  of  her  position  to  do  as  she  pleased,  called 
twice,  that  autumn,  on  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford ;  and,  though 
she  was  neither  time  received,  did  no  more  than  shake 
her  head  impatiently  that  Mrs.  Merrill's  daughter  should 
have  so  little  of  her  Mother's  savoir  vivre. 

These,  and  many  more  characteristic  disclosures  on 
the  part  of  the  various  Grangeford  women,  Virginia  ig- 
nored, nay,  laughed  at,  from  Philip's  arms.  They  meant 
nothing  to  her.  These  country  people  had  never  been 
more  than  tolerated;  and  just  because  she  had  cared  so 

140 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


little  for  their  goodwill,  she  knew  well  that  they  would 
be  the  more  heartless  toward  her  now.  But  she  refused 
to  see  that  their  attitude  toward  her  could  ever  seriously 
affect  her  happiness.  Mrs.  Merrill,  indeed,  had,  long  be- 
fore, recognized  their  importance  to  her  daughter's 
future ;  but  she  had  been  unable  to  bring  Virginia  to  her 
point  of  view,  and  had  left  the  matter  to  Time  to  care  for. 
And  in  time,  indeed,  Virginia  could  acknowledge,  with 
exceeding  bitterness,  the  truth  of  her  Mother's  teachings. 
But  then  she  was  to  work  and  toil  and  creep  her  peniten- 
tial way  back  to  favor,  treasuring  a  nod  from  one  of  these 
"  country  folk  "  as  she  would  not  now  have  treasured  a 
command  to  dine  with  royalty.  But,  alas !  Time  was  to 
work  great  changes  with  Virginia. 

Just  now,  there  was  but  one  person  in  Grangeford 
whose  blindness  was  seriously  necessary  to  her  happiness 
and  Philip's.  And  he  was,  certainly,  the  last  to  suspect 
the  drama  in  his  house.  September,  October,  November 
passed  away,  and  Charles  never  dreamed  of  what  was 
enacted  before  him.  And  then,  at  last,  in  December,  by 
no  one's  word,  by  no  betrayal,  no  accident,  no  carelessness 
on  the  part  of  the  twain,  just  through  some  slightest 
incident  unremembered  even  by  himself.  Van  Studdiford's 
attention  was  roused.  He  watched,  and  he  saw  nothing. 
He  listened :  all  was  silent.  Yet  Doubt  had  entered  into 
his  mind;  and  suddenly  the  future  loomed  black  before 
Philip  and  the  wife. 


141 


CHAPTER    IX 

During  the  first  three  weeks  of  December  there  was 
one  gjeat,  sympathetic  subject  of  conversation  at  the 
plow  factory,  in  which  the  foremen  were  in  perfect  agree- 
ment with  the  newest  errand  boys.  This  was  the  state 
of  temper  of  "  The  Boss."  Grangeford  also  remarked  it. 
Business  associates  saw  it^  wondered,  smiled  and  winked. 
Van  Studdiford  had  won  the  reputation  of  being  the 
keenest  of  business  men,  the  most  observing  of  masters, 
severe  with  anyone  suspected  of  shirking,  but  universally 
just.  Never,  in  the  history  of  his  business  career,  had 
he  allowed  temper  and  caprice  to  rule  him  as  now.  Philip 
perceived  it  early,  but  for  a  long  time  persistently  avoided 
its  recognition,  not  only  before  the  factory  men,  but 
also  before  his  own  conscience.  He  did  not  speak  of 
it  to  Virginia ;  and  she,  who  made  it  her  rule  to  observe 
as  little  as  she  could  in  regard  to  her  husband,  and  who 
actually  knew  him  less  well  than  did  her  own  maid,  di- 
vined nothing  unusual  about  him.  There  was  but  one  per- 
son in  the  world  from  whom  she  would  have  taken  en- 
lightenment ;  and  there  did,  finally,  come  a  day  when 
Philip  felt  obliged  to  open  her  eyes. 

Since  the  beginning  of  the  cold  weather,  Atkinson  had 
fallen  back  into  his  old,  comfortable  habit  of  coming  home 

142 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


to  tea  at  five  o'clock ;  and  the  dusk  idyls  of  the  year  before 
were  being  repeated.  Of  all  their  time  together,  this  hour, 
the  hour  of  danger,  of  sentiment,  of  repression,  was  the 
most  delicious.  The  tea-table  was  always  placed  near  the 
piano ;  and,  for  both  of  them,  the  memories  of  these  scenes 
were  fraught  with  bits  of  fragrant  melody,  long-drawn, 
pianissimo,  from  Chopin,  from  Schumann,  from  Gounod. 
And  at  these  times  Philip  was  in  his  subtlest  mood, 
the  mood  of  skilfully  varied  self-restraint,  in  which,  after 
all,  Virginia  loved  him  best.  Their  talk,  like  the  music, 
was  fragmentary,  and  never  concerned  anything  but  them- 
selves and  their  happiness.  But  there  came  an  afternoon, 
that  of  the  twentieth  of  December,  when  the  discussion 
of  the  dusk-hour  made  a  turning-point  in  their  history. 
Now,  for  the  first  time,  an  alien  element  was  introduced 
into  all  their  intercourse,  which  was,  henceforth,  never 
to  be  absent  from  them :  the  element  of  dread. 

Atkinson  opened  the  subject.  For  a  long  time  he  had 
been  silent:  had  sat  dreamily  watching  Virginia,  as  she 
moved  about  the  room,  her  tea-gown  of  pale  niauve  cling- 
ing close  to  the  reluctantly  developing  figure.  She  was 
not  a  child,  now.  And  in  his  eyes  she  was  far  more 
nearly  perfect  than  on  that  long-past  day  when  he  had 
first  met  her,  ten  weeks  before  her  marriage. 

"Virginia,"  he  said,  softly,  as  if  he  only  thought 
aloud:    "  Are  we  to  give  each  other  up?  " 

She  turned,  impetuously,  and  then  stopped  to  stare  at 
him.    "  You — you  are  not  smiling,"  she  said,  at  length. 

His  face  grew  more  serious  still.  "  I  cannot  smile. — 
I  meant  it." 

143 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  Philip !  "  there  was  almost  menace  in  her  tone. 

"  I  think  you  have  been  unobservant,  lately." 

"In  what?" 

"About— Charles." 

"  Charles !  "  she  smiled,  scornfully.  "  Why  should 
I  observe  him  ?  " 

"  Because  he  is  observing  you : — us." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  His  mood  is  marked,  Virginia.  At  the  factory  all 
the  men  are  either  laughing  or  swearing  at  it. — I've 
never  known  him  so  downright  unreasonable  yet. — And 
then  there  have  been  incidents,  lately. — I'm  obliged  to 
watch,  dear.    One  of  us  must." 

For  another  moment  she  stood  still,  absently  fingering 
the  petals  of  one  of  his  never-failing  roses.  Then,  all 
at  once,  she  dropped  it,  and  ran  to  him,  kneeling  at  his 
side,  laying  her  two  hands  on  his  knee.  "  You  will  see 
me  to-night  ? "  she  asked.  "  You  are  surely  coming 
to-night  ?  " 

"  Consider,  Virginia,"  he  murmured,  under  his 
breath.  "  Consider  the  risk.  Consider  the — ^possible — 
scandal " 

Her  delicate  hands  tightened.  "  You  will  come  ?  "  she 
repeated. 

For  a  second  still  he  hesitated.  Then,  bowing  his 
head,  he  answered :    "  Yes." 

And  perhaps,  after  all,  they  were  right.  Which  of 
the  gods  loved  discretion? 

Four  more  days  passed;  and  now  Virginia  also  was 
brought  to  notice  Charles'  state  of  mind.      Then  there 

144 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


came  a  little  incident  which,  though  it  had  no  bearing  on 
their  danger,  served  mightily  to  trouble  Philip.  Van 
Studdiford,  dilatory,  like  all  men,  in  whatever  had  to  do 
with  shopping,  decided  that  he  would  go  to  Chicago,  to 
get  the  last  of  his  Christmas  gifts,  on  the  twenty-second 
of  the  month.  He  was  to  be  gone  only  for  the  day ;  but 
he  insisted  on  Virginia's  accompanying  him,  which  she 
did  with  outward  grace  and  distressful  reluctance  in 
her  heart.  But  he  was  very  gentle  with  her  all  day,  and 
did  his  best  to  keep  her  amused  and  occupied.  Nor  would 
she  speak,  afterwards,  of  the  happenings  of  that  journey. 
And  Atkinson  was  obliged  to  hide  his  uneasiness  as  he 
could  when,  at  four  o'clock  the  next  morning,  he  was  ad- 
mitted to  her  by  Lucy,  and  found  his  lady-love  kneeling 
at  her  window,  weeping,  wearily.  He  tried  to  talk  to  her, 
but  she  was  not  in  the  mood  for  talking.  A  sudden  pas- 
sion of  depression,  or  sorrow,  or  remorse  had  overswept 
her,  and,  try  as  she  would,  she  could  not  shake  it  off. 

Breakfast,  on  Christmas  morning,  was,  as  on  all  holi- 
days, served  at  ten  o'clock.  Philip  and  Charles  were 
both  in  their  places  before  Virgfinia,  white,  worn,  making 
only  the  faintest  effort  at  a  smile,  came  in,  carrying  her 
gifts.  When  she  was  seated  there  was  a  general  opening 
of  packages  and  some  attempt  at  Christmas  gayety,  which 
died  away  as  it  had  come,  leaving  a  sense  of  ralief  that 
the  effort  was  over.  The  gifts,  beautiful,  expensive,  little 
thought-of  after  the  first,  perfunctory  thanks,  were  pushed 
aside;  and  the  meal  began.  Virginia  played  at  eating, 
for  her  heart  was  heavy  within  her,  and  to-day  she  had 
little  thought  even  for  Atkinson.    Perhaps  Charles,  had 

145 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


he  not  been  so  blind,  could,  this  single  time,  have  com- 
forted her  better.  For,  after  all,  Christmas  is  the  chil- 
dren's day;  and  all  night  long  Virginia's  thoughts  had 
been  with  her  baby,  picturing  her  as  she  would  have  been 
by  now ;  imagining  what  this  holiday  might  have  meant ; 
living  heart-broken  hours  in  the  pretty,  joyous  little 
world  that  had  been  so  cruelly  lost  to  her. 

Breakfast  over,  she  made  hurried  excuses  and  fled 
to  her  room.  Charles,  who  had  glowered  steadily  through 
the  meal,  suddenly  took  it  into  his  head  that,  had  there 
been  a  prospect  of  his  leaving  the  house,  Virginia  would 
have  stayed  downstairs.  Without  a  word  to  his  cousin 
he  strode  off  to  the  library,  banged  the  door  after  him, 
and  threw  himself  into  a  chair  before  a  desk  covered  with 
orderly  piles  of  papers.  Philip,  thus  left  to  himself  on 
the  day  of  days — which  was  also  Sunday,  knowing  Vir- 
ginia far  too  well  to  imagine  that  she  wanted  him, 
lounged  off  to  the  smoking-room  with  a  book,  and  tried 
to  forget  the  discomfort  of  his  surroundings.  It  was  of 
no  use.  For  an  hour  or  two  he  made  a  vain  effort  to  be- 
come interested  in  printed  characters.  Then  he  flung 
the  novel  aside,  smoked  three  pipes  of  over-strong  tobac- 
co, put  his  pipe  away,  decided  that  work  was  better  than 
idleness,  and,  with  the  best  intention  in  the  world,  walked 
into  the  library  where  Charles  still  sat,  saying,  agree- 
ably, as  he  entered: 

"  Come,  Charles !  Let  me  help  you  with  some  of 
the  California  bids." 

Van  Studdiford  looked  up,  slowly;  and  Philip  sud- 
denly perceived  that  his  eyes  had  never  been  so  cold,  so 

146 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


pale,  so  hard.  "I've  always  wondered  when  it  was  you 
really  wanted  to  work.  Christmas  and  Sunday !  The  com- 
bination arrives  every  seven  years.  I  congratulate  you  I  " 

Philip  stared  at  his  cousin.  The  moment  was  un- 
comfortable; but  he  would  not  quarrel  with  Charles. 
"  I'm  sorry  you  have  that  opinion  of  me,"  he  responded, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  I  thought  I  had  been  doing  a  good  deal 
of  work  this  fall." 

Van  Studdiford  snarled.  "  Oh — you  have.  You've 
done  a  damned  sight  more  than  anyone  asked  you  to. 
You've  muddled  the  Phoenix  matter  so  that  it'll  take  Fiirst 
six  months  to  get  that  land. — Work ! — Bah !  " 

Never  before  in  his  life  had  Charles  spoken  so  to  any 
man  in  his  employ.  Though  he  had,  before  this,  dis- 
charged Philip,  it  had  been  done  quietly  and  courteously, 
almost  with  friendly  deprecation.  But  at  this  last  speech 
Philip's  blood  rose.  His  eyes  grew  brilliant.  Furious 
words  were  on  his  lips.  And  then,  suddenly,  he  remem- 
bered Virginia.  Ah !  Charles  had  a  right  to  insult  him ; 
but,  for  her  sake,  he  must  take  the  insult.  He  would 
simply  leave  Van  Studdiford  till  this  mood  was  past. 

"  I'm  sorry  that  what  I  have  found  in  regard  to  the 
title  has  displeased  you,  Charles,"  he  uttered,  stiffly. 
Then  he  turned  toward  the  door. 

Van  Studdiford  let  him  take  three  or  four  steps.  One 
watching  him  very  closely  would  have  perceived  that  he 
wished,  of  all  things,  just  to  be  rid  of  Philip's  presence. 
Nevertheless,  nerving  himself  to  the  point  long  before  the 
other  had  reached  the  door,  he  said,  in  his  ugliest  tone : 

"  Come  back  here !  " 

147 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Philip  hesitated.  Then  he  faced  about,  squarely,  and 
stood  still. 

"  Come  back  to  this  desk." 

"Stop  it,  Charles!" 

Van  Studdiford  rose.  "  You  damned  cad !  How 
much  more  are  you  willing  to  take  from  me  ?  " 

Philip's  face  went  deathly  white.  His  fingers  worked. 
"  Not  one  more  foul  word,"  he  answered.  "  When  do  you 
intend  me  to  leave  ?  " 

Charles  sank  back  into  his  chair.  "  When — you 
choose,"  he  growled,  striving  to  hide  the  relief  in  his 
voice. 

"  To-morrow  morning,  then,  by  the  first  train !  "  And 
Atkinson  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  room. 

For  ten  minutes  Charles  Van  Studdiford  sat  before 
his  desk,  motionless,  rigid,  staring  off  into  space.  His 
face  was  very  pale,  and  this  gave  him  a  startlingly  un- 
usual appearance.  But  his  expression  was  not  that  of  an 
angry  man.  He  was  trembling,  slightly,  in  the  knees. 
His  mind  was  almost  a  blank.  After  a  time  he  tried  to 
work  again ;  but  the  effort  was  vain.  What  he  had  most 
wanted  to  do  that  day  was  done.  Leaving  his  desk,  he 
crossed  the  room  and  flung  himself,  wearily,  upon  his 
couch.  There,  though  he  could  not  sleep,  he  lay,  motion- 
less, lost  in  dreary  thoughts,  till  Carson  came  to  announce 
dinner:  the  Christmas  dinner. 

That  meal  was  doubtless  the  most  uncomfortable  that 
either  of  the  two  men  had  ever  endured.  Virginia  came 
in  late,  her  eyes  rather  red,  and  sat  dejected,  neither  speak- 
ing nor  eating.    Van  Studdiford,  watching  her,  had  made 

148 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


up  his  mind  that  Atkinson  had  seen  her  already,  when 
she  said,  petulantly : 

"  What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  you  two  ?  You 
look  as  if — you  were  sitting  on  pins." 

Atkinson  smiled,  faintly,  Charles  laughed  outright, 
more  from  nervousness  than  at  the  remark.  "  Holidays 
don't  agree  with  me,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  half  a 
tone  off  its  usual  key. 

Virginia  shrugged  her  shoulders.  It  mattered  very 
little  to  her  how  Charles  felt,  on  this  or  any  other  day. 
But,  during  the  meal,  her  eyes  rested  often,  question- 
ingly,  on  Atkinson.  Her  own  secret  and  sacred  grief,  in 
which  she  had  spent  the  morning,  began  to  melt  away 
before  a  nearer  dread  that  had  its  foundation  in  Philip's 
eyes.  Long  before  the  end  of  that  unhappy  meal  she  had 
divined  something  of  the  situation  between  the  men.  Yet 
her  heart  refused  the  evidence  discovered  by  her  eyes  and 
approved  by  her  brain.  It  was  not  possible  that  anything 
definite  had  come.  Philip  would  explain  it  soon.  Philip 
must  explain. 

Opportunity  for  that  explanation  speedily  arrived. 
Before  the  coffee  was  served,  Charles  had  ordered  Meteor 
and  the  sulky  to  be  ready  by  the  time  the  meal  was  over ; 
and,  at  that  order,  the  eyes  of  the  other  two  met.  When 
they  rose  from  the  table,  at  a  quarter  past  three,  Charles 
at  once  donned  his  fur-lined  coat  and  heavy  gloves,  and, 
three  minutes  later,  was  speeding  down  the  road,  away 
from  Grangeford,  away  from  jealousy,  anger,  or  care. 

Meantime,  Virginia  and  Philip  stood  in  the  drawing- 
room,  face  to  face.    For  the  moment,  they  only  stared 

149 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


into  each  other's  eyes.  Then  he  took  her,  gently,  into  his 
arms,  and  drew  her  to  a  sofa  which  stood  on  the  other  side 
of  the  room,  a  little  back  from  the  windows.  For  a  time, 
neither  spoke.  Then,  still  shutting  away  her  persisting 
dread,  Virginia  said,  faintly: 

"  Charles — is  in  a  very  bad  mood — to-day." 

Atkinson  did  not  answer. 

"  Has  he — been  very  angry  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  returned  Philip,  dully :  falling  almost  uncon- 
sciously into  the  tender  tone  that  was  used  to  bar  all  un- 
happiness  from  her. 

"  Why  is  he  so  angry  with  you  ?  "  Her  lips  were  at 
his  ear.  There  was  relief  in  her  tone.  In  his  arms  what 
could  she  dread? 

Atkinson's  heart  was  pierced  as  by  a  dagger.  He 
would  have  given  what  remained  of  his  honor  to  be  able 
to  answer  her  lightly.  But  she  must  know.  And  it  would 
be  a  little  easier  for  her  to  hear  it  from  him. 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure  why  he  is  angry  with  me. — He 
says  that  he  is  not  satisfied  with  my  work." 

She  smiled.  "  Oh — he  will  be  over  that  when  he 
comes  home. — Driving  always  cures  him  of  a  temper." 

Atkinson's  arms  tightened  around  her,  convulsively. 
"  Virginia — Virginia — he  has  discharged  me !  I  must 
leave  here,  to-morrow  morning." 

She  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  In  spite  of  her  self-de- 
ception, she  was  scarcely  surprised.  At  dinner,  instinct 
had  insisted  to  her  that  everything  was  very  wrong. 
But — it  was  not  possible  to  grasp  the  thought  that  Philip 
was  going — was  to  leave  her  here,  alone.    This  was  the 

150 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


thing  she  could  not  understand:  would  not,  dared  not, 
understand. 

Atkinson  was  murmuring  something  into  her  ear. 
But,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  did  not  heed  him. 
All  at  once  she  struggled  from  his  arms  to  her  feet.  See- 
ing the  look  in  her  face,  he  started. 

"  You  are  going  away  ? — You  are  going  away  from 
me  ? — To  leave  me  here  alone  ? — Oh,  my  God !  " 

He  sprang  up  and  caught  her,  just  in  time. 

Afternoon  sank  swiftly  into  twilight,  twilight  into 
night :  the  merciful,  velvet  night,  when  lovers  meet  for  last 
farewells.  It  was  five  in  the  morning  when  Atkinson  crept 
back  through  Lucy's  quiet  room  and  up  the  stairs,  to  dress 
and  finish  packing.  And  meantime,  while  he  pondered 
upon  the  day  to  come,  Virginia  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of 
exhaustion,  of  transition.  In  that  sleep  the  long  love- 
dream  was  coming  to  its  end.  And  with  the  daylight 
living  reality,  living  loneliness,  must  begin. 

As  once  before,  nine  months  ago,  she  woke  to  the  sense 
of  utter  emptiness.  But  the  feeling  of  to-day  was  infinitely 
different  from  that  that  had  been.  Then  she  had  stood, 
innocent  and  ignorant,  in  a  halo  of  romance,  of  impend- 
ing love.  Now — there  were  only  memories.  Upon 
Philip's  departure  to-day  she  felt  none  of  the  aggravation 
of  half -love,  none  of  the  out-reaching,  none  of  the  disap- 
pointed helplessness  that  she  had  known  hitherto.  After 
the  shock  of  the  afternoon,  the  bewilderment  and  fore- 
boding of  the  night,  her  mood  suddenly  changed.  She 
woke  very  late  in  the  morning,  drank  her  coffee,  dressed 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


carefully,  and  then  seated  herself  in  the  jut  of  the  South 
window  of  her  room,  to  think. 

There  was  much  to  be  considered.  Philip  was  gone: 
but  only  to  Chicago.  Surely,  somehow,  somewhere,  very, 
very  soon,  they  could  meet.  Meantime,  there  was  Charles, 
who  had  never  before  seemed  so  important  as  to-day. 
Durmg  the  night,  in  their  long  talk,  she  had  had,  from 
Philip,  the  brief  tale  of  the  quarrel ;  and  it  had  been  too 
apparent  to  both  of  them  that  the  objection  to  Philip's 
work  had  been  made  merely  to  cloak  another  motive  for 
getting  rid  of  him.  But  now,  now  that  she  was  alone, 
face  to  face  with,  wholly  dependent  upon,  herself,  every 
power  of  Virginia's  mind  was  brought  up  before  the 
single,  terrible  question :  "  Does  he  know  ?  " 

Did  Charles  know?  How  much — how  little  was  it 
possible  for  him  to  have  surmised?  Again,  could  it  be 
that  he  only  suspected?  Long  and  drearily  did  Virginia 
ponder  the  subject ;  long  and  wearily  did  she  analyze  her 
husband's  behavior,  his  most  trivial  words,  looks,  and 
gestures.  Think  as  she  would,  weigh,  deduce,  philoso- 
phize, she  was  left  where  she  had  begun.  She  could  come 
to  no  conclusion. 

After  nearly  two  hours  of  fruitless  puzzling,  she  turned 
at  last  to  another  subject,  about  which  there  could  be  little 
doubt,  but  which  was  by  no  means  pleasant  to  contem- 
plate :  the  attitude  of  Grangeford  toward  her.  To  this  she 
was  by  no  means  blind.  Up  to  this  hour,  she  had  merely 
been  indiflFerent.  But  now! — without  Philip,  who,  since 
his  return  from  the  West,  she  had  considered  the  fixed  stay 
of  her  life,  what  was  she  to  do  in  this  town?    What  occu- 

152 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


pation,  what  companionship,  was  there  here  for  her  ?  Ah ! 
Were  not  all  faces  averted  from  her  when  she  went 
abroad?  Who  came  to  call  nowadays?  What  had  she 
done  with  her  first,  perfect  opportunity  of  reigning  as 
queen  in  this  "  village  "  ?  Was  she  to  allow  these  country 
folk  to  hurt  her?  Never!  Better  to  lead  a  hermit's  Hfe 
than  expose  herself  to  the  malice  of  this  over-proper  place. 
And,  as  she  framed  this  thought,  Virginia's  face,  already 
so  much  changed,  became  hard,  cold,  and  bad  to  look 
upon. 

At  one  o'clock  she  went  downstairs,  to  lunch  alone 
with  Charles,  hugging  to  her  heart  her  new  role  of  abso- 
lute impenetrability.  But  for  all  her  thoughts,  for  all  the 
unhappiness,  wrong,  nay,  sin,  of  her  married  life,  Virginia 
Merrill  was  not  in  any  way  of  the  type  she  was  attempt- 
ing to  imitate.  Philip  had  gained  her  love  through  his 
exceeding  polish,  his  refinement,  his  skillful  playing  on 
the  most  sensitive  chords  of  her  nature.  He  had  been 
her  refuge,  first  from  grief  and  loneliness,  later  from  the 
unrefinement,  the  all  but  coarseness,  of  another  man :  her 
husband.  And  now,  in  her  sudden  woeful  solitude,  she 
found  that  she  had  but  little  strength.  That  first  lunch- 
eon was  a  nightmare  to  her.  And,  in  the  end,  just  one 
week  of  the  empty,  dreary  house  broke  her,  completely. 
In  her  sudden  tumult  of  realization,  confusion,  and  misery, 
she  did  the  thing  that  she  should  have  avoided  doing  till 
the  last :  she  went  to  see  Marion  Hunt. 

Had  Virginia  ever  been  schooled  to  human  nature, 
had  she  ever  before  come  in  contact  with  the  big  world 
of  which  Grangeford  was  unquestionably  a  part,  she 
11  153 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


would  have  known  well  that,  of  all  uncharitableness  in  the 
world,  there  is  none  so  great  as  that  of  a  young,  disap- 
pointed woman,  who  believes  herself  deliberately  wronged 
in  the  matter  of  a  love-affair.  Virginia  neither  knew  nor 
surmised  this.  Marion  had  been  her  friend.  Marion 
would  sympathize.  Marion  she  could  trust.  Therefore 
to  Marion  she  went. 

It  was  the  day  after  the  New  Year  of  1898: — a  chilly, 
drizzling  day,  with  now  and  then  a  faint  gleam  of  watery 
sunshine  breaking  through  grudging  clouds.  As  she 
drove  through  the  empty  streets  Virginia's  heart  beat 
high  with  a  measure  of  false  hope.  They  were  nearing 
the  Hunt  house  when  she  had  a  fleeting  glimpse  of 
Marion's  head  at  an  upper  window.  Ah!  She  was  at 
home,  then !  Something,  at  least,  would  be  settled  be- 
tween them.  Of  that  something,  Virginia  could  see  only 
the  brighter  side.  Having  asked  for  Marion  at  the  door, 
she  was  at  once  shown  into  the  parlor,  and  she  waited, 
rather  nervously,  for  three  or  four  minutes,  considering 
what  her  first  speech  had  better  be.  Presently  the  maid 
returned,  alone,  astonishment  in  her  face,  confusion  in 
her  manner,  stammering,  awkwardly: 

"  M-Miss  Hunt  is  not  at  home !  " 

"  She  is  out !  "    The  visitor  started  to  her  feet. 

"Yes,  Ma'am." 

"  Why — why — Oh !  "  Virginia,  her  face  scarlet, 
turned  hastily  to  the  door. 

One  moment,  and  she  was  back  in  the  phaeton.  Me- 
teor was  carrying  her  homeward  as  swiftly  as  his  slender 
legs  could  move.     She  noticed  nothing,  however,  of  the 

154 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


length  of  the  drive.  The  poison  was  working  in  her  heart. 
She  was  repeating  to  herself,  over  and  over  again :  "  Miss 
Hunt  is  not  at  home !  "  And  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  world 
had  crumbled  before  her  in  that  one,  formal  lie. 

For  three  days  more  Virginia  existed,  alone,  in  the 
light  of  the  new  revelation.  And  that  which  she  en- 
dured in  the  three  days,  is  not  to  be  considered  lightly. 
She  discovered  herself  to  have  a  million  new  capacities 
for  suffering.  There  was  no  hardness  about  her  now: 
scarcely  even  pride.  Marion  had  hurt  more  cruelly  than 
Marion  herself  had  dreamed  possible ;  and  this  was  much 
indeed.  For  now  poor  Virginia  was  deciding  anew  how 
all  Grangeford  felt  toward  her,  undreaming  that  there 
were  some,  a  dozen  or  more  sensible  women,  in  whose 
hands  conventional  cruelty  was  an  unknown  weapon,  who 
would  have  received  her,  advised  her,  and  shown  her, 
perhaps,  the  way  back  to  Charles  and  to  absolution.  But 
she  persisted  in  her  own  method;  and,  in  her  bewil- 
derment, committed  another  folly.  She  wrote  Marion 
a  note,  infinitely  pathetic  did  one  see  it  so,  asking  for 
an  interview,  however  brief,  anywhere  that  Marion 
wished. 

This  appeal  was  not  answered  for  two  days;  and 
meantime  Virginia  went  through  tortures  of  expectation. 
So  absorbed  was  she  in  her  own  melancholy,  that  two  of 
Philip's  notes,  sent  under  cover  of  Lucy,  lay  unanswered 
in  her  desk.  Alas !  What  was  Philip  in  comparison  with 
such  disgrace?  After  all,  she  was  hardly  a  good  trans- 
gressor, was  Virginia. 

On  the  afternoon  of  Monday,  January  the  ninth,  Mrs. 
155 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Van  Studdiford  was  in  the  drawing-room,  at  the  piano, 
when  the  door  was  unexpectedly  thrown  open,  and  Carson 
announced,  loudly: 

"  Miss  Hunt !  " 

Virginia  had  been  playing  from  memory,  and  the  end 
of  the  room,  where  she  sat,  was  in  shadow.  She  remained 
perfectly  still,  watching  Marion  walk,  with  exaggerated 
ease,  across  the  room  and  seat  herself  upon  the  sofa. 
Then,  moved  by  a  quick  impulse,  Virginia  turned  to  the 
wall,  pressed  a  button,  and  threw  a  brilliant  flood  of  light 
upon  the  scene. 

"  Marion !  "  she  cried,  joyously,  hurrying  forward : 
"  Marion !    I  was  sure  you  would  come !  " 

But  there  was  no  responsive  light  in  Marion's  eyes. 
She  sat  up  stiffly,  unsmiling,  her  mouth  screwed  into  its 
primmest  lines.  "  You  wrote  that  you  wished  to  see  me," 
she  observed,  staring  straight  before  her. 

Virginia  recoiled,  quivering.  It  took  her  two  minutes 
to  recover  herself.  Then  she  sat  down,  quietly,  in  a  deep 
chair,  at  some  distance  from  the  sofa.  There  followed 
a  silence  that  lasted  for  two  or  three  highly  uncomfort- 
able minutes.  Marion  would  not  speak.  Virginia,  re- 
pulsed, thrown  back  upon  herself,  was  trying,  confusedly, 
to  think  how  far  she  might  go,  what  plan  of  behavior 
she  had  best  adopt.  She  could  feel  Marion's  hard,  ac- 
cusing eyes  fixed  on  her  heart ;  and,  in  the  light  of  that 
look,  began  to  read  her  friend  for  the  first  time  truly. 
It  was  her  first  real  battle  against  enmity :  that  enmity  that 
she  was  to  know  so  infinitely  well !  And  now,  at  the  very 
outset,  she  was  terror-stricken. 

156 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Suddenly,  with  a  little,  preliminary  gasp,  she  began : 
"  Why  wouldn't  you  see  me  the  other  day,  Marion  ?  " 

"  I  was  very  sorry  not  to  have  been  at  home." 

"  But  you  were  at  home.    I  saw  you." 

Marion  merely  stared,  in  scornful  silence. 

"  Why  wouldn't  you  see  me  ?  "  persisted  Virginia. 

At  this  absurd  repetition,  even  Marion  found  herself 
slightly  confused.  After  a  second's  consideration  she 
turned  full  on  Virginia,  and,  as  she  spoke,  her  eyes 
carried  the  accusation  home,  "  I  shouldn't  think  you 
would  care  to  ask  why  I  didn't  wish  to  see  you.  I  should 
think  you  would  know  very  well  why — no  nice  woman 
would  wish  to  see  you !  " 

Virginia  went  white  to  the  lips.  But,  suddenly,  a  little 
of  her  Mother's  manner  descended  upon  her.  Her  dig- 
nity had  become  perfect  as  she  said,  calmly :  "I  am 
afraid,  nevertheless,  that  I  do  not  know.  Please  explain 
yourself." 

Marion's  eyes  were  venomous  now.  "  Oh,  if  you 
don't  know,  /  sha'n't  take  the  trouble  to  tell  you !  "  And 
at  this  speech  even  Virginia  perceived  that  Marion  had 
become  rather  vulgar. 

"  You  must  tell  me,  Marion. — Oh — what  is  the  matter 
with  you  ? "  And  the  high  manner  fell  away  again, 
piteously. 

Now  for  many,  many  months  Marion  Hunt,  in  the 
bitterness  of  unretumed  love,  had  been  cherishing  an  al- 
most hatred,  bom  entirely  of  jealousy,  against  her  whilom 
friend.  Therefore,  at  this  juncture,  tempted  quite  beyond 
herself,  she  gave  Virginia  the  desired  explanation.    Rising 

157 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


from  her  seat,  her  angry  eyes  fixed  unwinkingly  on  Vir- 
ginia's pale  face,  her  voice  ringing  high  with  false 
tones,  she  made  that  accusation  which,  for  many 
years,  lay  between  the  two  women,  an  impassable 
barrier  to  the  semblance  of  friendliness,  even  acquaint- 
anceship : 

"  I'll  tell  you,  Virginia  Merrill,  why  I  don't  want 
to  see  you  in  my  house,  and  why  I'll  never  again  come  in- 
side of  yours.  It's  because  you're  not  fit  for  good  women 
to  speak  to.  You  came  here,  with  your  money  and  your 
snobbery,  and  set  yourself  above  us  all ;  and  people  ran  to 
you  and  toadied  to  you,  and  catered  to  your  whims.  You 
had  everything  you  wanted,  and  so  you  began  to  want 
what  belonged  to  other  people.  Philip  Atkinson  wasn't 
yours.  But  he  lived  in  the  house  with  you.  And  you — 
you  made  him  stay  beside  you,  and  flirt  with  you,  because 
you  saw  he  cared  for  me.  And  when  he  went  West  to 
get  away  from  you,  you  forced  him  to  come  back.  And 
everybody  in  Grangeford  knows  what  you  are,  and  what 
he  is  to  you.  There  isn't  a  woman  in  Grangeford  that 
you  are  fit  to  associate  with.  They  wouldn't  let  you  look 
at  one  of  their  children.  And  I  shall  never  speak  to  you 
again  because  you  are  a  bad  woman:  because  you  are 
Phil " 

"  Marion ! " 

The  other  stopped ;  but  her  eyes  and  her  cheeks  were 
aflame. 

Virginia  pointed,  with  a  shaking  hand,  to  the  door. 
"Go!  "she  said. 

And  Marion  went.  But,  as  she  crossed  that  oft-trod- 
158 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


den  threshold  for  the  last  time,  all  the  anger  was  gone 
from  her.  Her  gathered  rage  had  spent  itself.  Already 
there  was  a  new  feeling  knocking  for  entrance  at  her 
heart.  Already  the  tears  were  swelling  behind  her  hot 
eyes.  But  all  this,  Virginia,  desperate  and  broken,  could 
not  know. 

Two  hours  later,  when  Van  Studdiford  came  home, 
he  found  his  wife  still  seated  in  that  chair,  in  the  bril- 
liantly-lighted drawing-room.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
she  had  been  taken  ill.  Certainly  she  looked  very  badly. 
He  took  off  his  hat  and  coat  in  the  hall,  and  then  went  in 
again,  and  surveyed  her,  helplessly,  as  men  do. 

"  Can  I  get  you  something  ?  "  he  ventured. 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  am  quite  comfortable,"  was  the 
faint  reply. 

"  Perhaps  I'd  better  send  for  Lucy?  " 

"  No,  don't,  Charles.  Sit  down  for  a  moment. 
There's  something  I'd  like  to  ask  of  you." 

He  threw  himself,  rather  wearily,  upon  the  sofa,  and 
waited,  in  silence,  for  her  to  speak.  For  a  moment  or  two 
she  watched  him,  dully,  picturing  Marion  in  his  place. 
Then  she  began,  in  a  low,  unsteady  voice : 

"  I — I  think,  Charles,  that  I  haven't  been  quite  well, 
lately.  I'm  very  lonely,  too,  with — you  away  all  day.  My 
Mother  and  Father  are  in  Chicago  just  now,  you  know ; 
and  I  should  like,  very,  very  much,  to  go  in  and  visit 
them  for  perhaps  a  week.  Will  you — won't  you  allow 
me  to?" 

Before  the  question  was  out,  the  instinctive  sinking  of 
her  heart  told  what  the  answer  must  be.    Charles'  face 

159 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


showed  plainly  that  he  had  instantly  connected  Atkinson 
with  Chicago.    He  frowned  as  he  answered : 

"  Better  have  HoUis  come  up  and  look  you  over,  I 
guess." 

"  But "  she  hesitated,  afraid  of  him,  yet  driven  to 

brave  it  out :    "  May  I  not  go  ?  " 

"  No."  He  rose.  "  You  may  not  go  to  Chicago.  You 
will  continue  to  live  in  Grangeford,  with  me."  And  he 
left  the  room. 

She  was  scarcely  disappointed.  She  had  not  even  hoped 
that  he  would  let  her  go.  There  was,  indeed,  no  hope  of 
any  kind  for  her.  After  a  few,  slow  minutes,  she,  too, 
rose,  and  went  upstairs,  and  dressed,  and  in  some  manner 
got  through  the  dinner  and  the  evening,  counting  the 
minutes  till  night  should  bring  her  freedom  to  express — 
something :  some  of  her  misery  and  anger  and  fear. 

Thus  began  again  the  slow  passage  of  the  weeks. 
Afterwards,  Virginia  had  no  recollection  of  any  single 
incident  in  the  month  that  followed.  Philip's  letters  served 
to  keep  her  from  desperation.  And  there  was  also  a  faint 
hope  of  seeing  him — sometime.  The  spirit  of  his  missives 
was  disquieting,  however;  for  more  passionate  protesta- 
tions had  never  been  laid  on  paper.  He  loved  her,  this 
impotent  man.  That  still  was  left.  And,  so  long  as  he  was 
only  eighty  miles  away,  so  long  as  she  could  still  dream  of 
being  in  his  arms  again,  she  tried  to  live,  however  drear- 
ily, and  keep  her  faith  alive. 

Thirty-eight  days  went  by.  Then  a  great  landmark 
suddenly  rose  in  her  monotonous  way.  When  Virginia 
came  down  to  breakfast  on  the  morning  of  February 

i6o 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


sixteenth,  she  found  Charles  clutching  his  Tribune  in  a 
state  of  great  excitement,  and  the  decorous  Carson  stand- 
ing behind  his  chair,  actually  reading,  over  his  master's 
shoulder,  the  first,  hasty  accoimt  of  the  destruction  of  the 
Maine. 


i6i 


CHAPTER    X 

As  it  happened,  oddly  enough,  perhaps,  it  was  a  long 
time  before  Virginia  perceived  how  much  this  startling 
denouement  might  mean  to  her.  During  breakfast 
Charles  talked  a  good  deal  about  the  gravity  of  what 
had  happened;  and  his  wife,  relieved  to  see  that  he  had 
lapsed  from  the  recent  studied  politeness  that  had 
frozen  her  with  dread,  listened  with  well-simulated  in- 
terest to  his  remarks.  Charles  was  far  too  whole-souled 
a  business  man  to  desire  war.  Therefore,  still,  in  his  own 
mind,  refusing  to  consider  war  a  certainty,  he  did  not 
mention  it  as  a  probable  outcome  of  the  disaster.  When 
he  left  for  the  factory  Virginia  retired  to  her  own  room, 
to  spend  her  customary  idle  morning,  not  thinking 
to  take  the  paper  with  her.  It  was  Lucy  Markle  who 
finally  opened  her  eyes.  Lucy,  knowing  all  her  painful 
secret,  and  sympathizing  with  it  as  only  foolish  persons 
can,  was  in  a  state  of  fluttering  anxiety.  Returning  from 
her  own  breakfast  in  the  servants'  dining-room,  she 
paused  by  the  toilet-table,  holding  a  tray  of  soiled  brushes, 
and,  after  eying  her  mistress  for  a  minute,  observed, 
mournfully : 

"  Oh,  Madam !    How  brave  you  are !  " 
Virginia  stared  at  her.    "  Brave? — How?  " 
Lucy  set  the  brushes  down,  and  clasped  her  hands 
before  her: 

162 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  Carson  says — there's  sure  to  be  war,  now,  you  see." 

"  Really.    But  why  should  I  fear  that?  " 

Lucy  took  up  her  brushes  again,  looking  a  little  crest- 
fallen. "  I  don't  know,"  she  muttered.  "  If  Mr.  Atkin- 
son had  to  go " 

Virginia  started  to  her  feet.  "  War ! — Philip ! — 
Oh ! — Oh,  Heavens !  "     And  she  sank  back  again. 

For  a  few  minutes  Lucy  busied  herself  with  salts  and 
cologne.  Then  her  Mistress  straightened,  and  said, 
quickly:  "Bring  me  the  paper — the  Chicago  Tribune!" 

But,  alas !  Charles  had  carried  it  oif  with  him ;  and  by 
this  time  there  would  not  be  one  for  sale  in  Grangeford. 
What  should  she  do?  This  dreadful  fear  must  be  con- 
firmed or  proved  groundless — somehow.  There  were  five 
minutes  of  earnest  thought.  Then  Virginia  found  her 
purse  and  counted  the  money  in  it.  It  contained  a  little 
more  than  five  dollars:  enough  for  a  return  ticket  to 
the  city. 

"  Ah !  Now,  Lucy,  dress  me  quickly !  "  cried  Virginia. 
"  I  am  going  to  Chicago  by  the  lo  :30 !  " 

That  day  Virginia  and  Philip  spent  five  hours  to- 
gether. Their  meeting  was  one  such  as  only  six  weeks 
of  separation  and  the  sudden  certainty  of  war  could  have 
made  possible.  On  the  woman's  side  these  hours  almost 
paid  for  the  lonely  misery  of  the  past  weeks.  And  in  the 
eyes  of  the  man  she,  with  her  new  pallor,  and  the  little, 
tired  droop  of  eyes  and  lips  lately  acquired,  had  become 
more  exquisite  than  ever.  For  him,  her  fascination 
never  lessened.  His  was  the  grand  passion.  And  when 
they  parted  again,  at  the  station,  late  in  the  afternoon, 

163 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


it  was  with  the  promise  that  there  should  be  other  meet- 
ings— many  meetings — such  as  this  one,  before  the  dread 
future  became  a  more  dreadful  present.  For  Philip  did 
not  try  to  deceive  her  in  the  truth  that  war  with  Spain 
was  now  a  certainty ;  and  that  when  it  was  declared  there 
was  no  regiment  that  would  be  ordered  to  report  for  duty 
sooner  than  the  First  Illinois  Volunteers. 

Virginia  arrived  in  Grangeford  at  half  past  six  to 
find  Charles  at  the  station,  waiting  for  her  with  the 
phaeton.  The  look  in  his  face,  as  he  silently  conducted 
her  to  the  vehicle,  sent  a  shudder  of  terror  to  her  heart. 
And,  before  they  reached  the  house,  she  knew  that  the 
shudder  had  not  been  without  cause.  Charles  did  not 
rage  or  rail  or  storm  at  her.  He  did  not  talk  very  long. 
But  what  he  did  say,  in  the  cold,  cutting  tone  of  his  deep- 
est anger,  reached  her  soul,  and  was  there  transformed 
into  a  fount  of  fear,  shame,  bitterness,  and  passionate 
dislike  of  him,  her  husband.  During  that  drive  she  her- 
self did  not  utter  a  word :  seeming  to  disdain  any  reply 
to  his  accusations,  in  reality  too  frightened  to  attempt  a 
defense  that  might  have  betrayed  her.  Silence  was  the 
wisest  course  she  could  have  chosen.  For,  when  they  had 
reached  the  house  and  Virginia  had  retired  to  her  room 
without  even  remembering  dinner,  Charles  found  himself 
in  his  library,  pacing  heavily  up  and  down  the  room,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  him,  wondering,  wondering,  help- 
lessly, anxiously,  whether  his  suspicions  might  not  really 
be  false:  whether  this  monstrous  jealousy  were  not  act- 
ually a  monstrous  injustice. 

That  day  was  never  mentioned  again  between  the  hus- 
164 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


band  and  the  wife.  But  a  repetition  of  it  was  made  impos- 
sible by  a  very  simple  means.  Virginia  had  spent  all  but 
a  few  cents  of  her  money  on  the  ticket ;  and  she  was  not 
given  any  more.  This  wife  of  a  ten  times  millionaire  re- 
ceived, in  more  than  two  months'  time,  less  than  five  dollars 
in  pocket-money !  Hitherto,  certainly.  Van  Studdiford  had 
been  liberal  enough.  Virginia  had  never  had  to  ask  for 
money ;  but  was  given  a  large  allowance,  besides  having  all 
her  bills  paid  without  a  murmur.  Now  there  was  no  talk 
about  money.  Though  her  purse  should  be  empty  for  the 
rest  of  her  life,  she  would  never  ask  her  tormentor  for 
so  much  as  one  cent.  This  she  vowed  to  herself,  passion- 
ately; and  this  attitude  Charles  covertly  watched  and 
was  satisfied  with. 

Weeks  passed ;  and  daily  some  fresh  turn  of  the  diplo- 
matic wheel  strained  a  little  tighter  the  relations  between 
the  United  States  and  Spain.  Daily  the  feeling  through- 
out the  country  grew  more  bitter :  the  desire  for  war  be- 
came more  evident.  The  Court  of  Inquiry  into  the  causes 
of  the  Maine  explosion  was  still  droning  through  its  work 
in  Havana  when  the  emergency  fund  was  voted  by  Con- 
gress. It  was  the  twenty-first  of  March  before  the  court 
transmitted  its  report  to  President  McKinley.  On  the 
seventh  of  April,  the  Powers  attempted  a  gentle  remon- 
strance, which,  on  the  tenth,  was  seconded  by  Spain.  This 
had  the  effect  of  drawing  out  the  War  message,  published 
on  the  eleventh;  and  by  that  time  the  most  conservative 
had  yielded  to  the  inevitable. 

Virginia  was  now  living  in  history — as  expressed  in 
unlimited  "  extra  "  editions.     Every  column,  paragraph 

165 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


or  line  bearing  upon  the  impending  war  she  devoured; 
always  hoping  to  find  hope:  the  hope  that  consisted  of 
PhiHp's  possible  safety.  Atkinson  himself,  however, 
though  he  tried  to  refrain  from  letting  her  see  it  in  his 
letters,  had  caught  all  the  enthusiasm  of  his  regiment, 
and  longed,  with  the  romantic  ignorance  of  the  recruit, 
for  an  order  to  the  front.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  by  tem- 
perament and  by  physique,  Philip  was  eminently  fitted 
to  be  a  soldier.  He  had  all  the  Bohemian  love  of  un- 
settlement;  all  the  mere  physical  courage,  all  the  spirit 
and  vigor  and  muscle  that  go  to  resist  exposure,  and 
have,  throughout  history,  served  to  advance  men  in  the 
great  game  of  war.  Virginia  knew  nothing  of  this.  She 
refused,  absolutely,  to  regard  Philip  in  his  official  light ; 
and,  day  and  night,  the  possibility  of  his  going  tore  at 
her  heart,  till,  at  length,  it  became  a  certainty. 

During  the  crucial  third  week  in  April,  however, — 
that  week  of  weeks  at  Washington,  only  half  of  Atkin- 
son's thoughts  were  with  his  regiment.  The  rest  were 
fully  given  up  to  the  making  of  some  plan  whereby  he 
might  see  Virginia  and  say  good-by  to  her. 

Already,  in  a  deftly-worded  note,  he  had  asked  Charles 
for  permission  to  come  to  Grangeford  to  see  him  and  Mrs. 
Van  Studdiford  for  the  last  time. ,  Charles'  reply  was  very 
polite.  He  was  proud  of  Philip's  patriotism :  would  fol- 
low his  career  with  interest :  wished,  on  the  part  of  Mrs. 
Van  Studdiford  and  himself,  all  possible  good-fortune 
to  his  cousin;  but  would  not  venture  to  take  up  Philip's 
too  valuable  time  by  asking  him  to  spend  the  greater 
part  of  a  day  in  the  journey  to  and  from  Grangeford. 

i66 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Philip  laughed  over  the  letter,  and  was  scarcely  dis- 
appointed. In  any  case  it  would  not  have  been  partic- 
ularly interesting  to  see  Virginia  in  her  husband's  pres- 
ence; and  hear  her  say  all  the  conventional  things  that 
could  only  tantalize  them  both.  Yet  he  had  felt  bound  to 
make  this  overture,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  Virginia's 
safety.  Now,  he  could  decide  between  the  two  other 
means  of  gaining  his  end.  It  would  be  easy  enough  for 
him  to  provide  Virginia  with  a  ticket  to  Chicago,  where 
he  would  meet  her.  Or,  he  could  reverse  the  situation, 
and  go  to  her — privately. 

After  a  careful  weighing  of  the  pros  and  cons,  he 
decided  on  the  latter  course.  The  first  plan,  so  far  as  the 
mere  day  went,  would  be  far  the  simpler.  But  there  might 
be  consequences  to  Virginia  that  he  could  not  allow  her  to 
face.  Charles  might  even  be  driven  to  begin  a  systematic 
plan  of  spying  that  would  discover  and  destroy  their  last 
refuge:  their  letters  to  each  other.  Therefore,  though 
the  thing  was  difficult — nay,  dangerous,  in  the  extreme, 
he  determined  to  go  to  her,  for  farewell. 

The  affair  required  the  nicest  management ;  and,  when 
at  length  he  had  decided  to  undertake  it,  the  time  at  his 
disposal  was  very  short.  War,  everyone  knew,  must  be 
formally  declared  within  two  days.  The  call  for  troops 
would  follow  almost  within  the  hour.  Every  volunteer 
regiment  in  the  state  had  been  at  daily  drill  for  a  month 
or  more.  And  Colonel  Turner  was  the  one  man  abso- 
lutely certain  to  receive  marching  orders  at  once.  There 
was,  thus,  no  time  to  be  lost.  Philip  fixed  on  the  night 
of  the  twenty-second  of  April  for  his  venture ;  and,  on  the 

167 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


morning  of  the  twenty-first,  Virginia  had  a  letter  that 
threw  her  into  a  mist  of  excitement,  of  terror,  of  joy. 

She  answered  it  at  once,  filling  in  the  gaps  in  his  plan 
down  to  the  minutest  details.  Perhaps  she  may  have 
realized  how  serious  was  the  danger  in  what  Philip  wished 
to  do.  But  the  feeling  that  had  prompted  his  plan,  the 
desire  to  see  her  alone,  overrode  all  her  considerations. 
She  was  to  have  a  few  more  hours  with  the  man  she 
had  loved  better  than  everything  else  in  life.  They  were 
to  be  together  once  more ;  and  his  strong  arms  around  her, 
his  voice  in  her  ear,  his  lips  on  her  lips,  would  instil  into 
her  enough  courage,  enough  strength,  to  face  the  summer 
that  must  come. 

Had  Van  Studdiford  been  a  reader  of  faces  in  other 
than  business  interviews,  he  would  surely  have  gained 
some  inkling  of  what  was  preparing  around  him.  From 
a  pale,  patient,  sometimes  sulky  melancholy,  Virginia's 
expression  had  changed  to  an  eager  interest  and  alert- 
ness. Her  laugh — a  nervous  little  laugh  it  had  become — 
was  but  too  ready.  Her  hands  were  now  never  still. 
Color  came  and  went  in  her  face;  and  a  brilliant  light 
gleamed  in  the  formerly  dull  eyes.  But  if  Charles  noticed 
the  change  at  all,  he  was  far  too  busy  to  weight  it  in  the 
face  of  the  thing  that  was  now  troubling  him  even  more 
than  his  wife.  For  war  had  been  declared ;  and  the  farm- 
ers would  want  few  plows  this  season. 

Dusk,  on  the  evening  of  the  twenty-second  of  April, 
fell  before  seven  o'clock.  There  was  a  fine  mist  in  the 
air  and  the  clouds  hung  low.    Virginia  and  Lucy  Markle 

i68 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


were  together  in  Virginia's  bedroom.  The  toilet  was 
finished;  and,  downstairs,  dinner  had  been  announced. 
Yet  the  two  lingered,  each  with  the  same  thought  in  her 
mind,  till  there  came,  through  the  twilight,  the  long 
whistle  of  the  evening  train.  Then,  still  unconsciously, 
the  hands  of  the  women  met,  in  a  convulsive  clasp. 

"  He  is  here,"  murmured  Virginia,  softly ;  and,  for 
one  instant,  her  eyes  gleamed  full.  Then  she  turned  to 
go  down  to  the  long-drawn-out  evening  that  awaited  her. 

Dinner,  and  the  hour  after  it,  passed  as  usual.  There 
was  little  conversation;  for  Charles  was  nearly  as  pre- 
occupied as  his  wife.  Business  was  in  a  precarious  state. 
The  stock-market  had  fallen  alarmingly.  And,  since  the 
formal  declaration  of  war,  four  of  his  largest  orders  for 
plows  had  been  cut  in  two.  To-night,  Charles  was  con- 
sidering the  advisability  of  laying  off  some  of  the  factory 
men.  Therefore  he  made  a  perfunctory  attempt  at  talk- 
ing while  he  took  his  coffee  in  the  drawing-room;  and 
then  retreated  to  the  library,  by  that  move  telling  Vir- 
ginia that  she  was  safe  for  the  night. 

It  was  but  a  little  after  nine  o'clock  when  she  stood 
again  in  her  room,  huggping  to  her  heart  the  certainty 
that  somewhere  outside,  in  the  damp  gfrounds,  Philip  was 
in  hiding,  till  it  should  be  time  for  the  signal  that  she 
coiild  not  give  till  Charles  was  safely  upstairs  in  his  room, 
asleep.  This  might  not  be  for  two,  even  three  hours. 
And  Virginia,  looking  around  her  bedroom,  sighed, 
deeply.  The  shades,  according  to  arrangement,  were 
fast  drawn ;  and  the  heavy  damask  curtains  that  over- 
hung the  lace  underneath,  would  prevent  any  light  show- 
12  169 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


ing  through  till  it  was  wanted.  The  room  was  in  festal 
array.  Only  the  small  table  was  occupied  prosaically,  with 
a  covered  tray.  Everything  else  was  banked  with  roses 
— Philip's  roses — arranged  not  so  fantastically  as  of  old, 
because  Virginia  had  not  dared,  but  forming,  neverthe- 
less, a  radiant  background  to  her  figure. 

Presently  Lucy  appeared,  to  dress  her ;  and  in  prepar- 
ing her  Mistress  for  the  role  she  loved  best  to  see  her  play, 
Lucy  was,  undeniably,  an  artist.  By  ten  o'clock  Virginia 
was  ready:  gowned  in  a  long  negligee  of  accordeon- 
plaited  chiffon-cloth  of  palest  yellow,  her  hair  coiled  low 
on  her  neck,  her  complexion,  in  its  delicate  fairness,  glow- 
ing brightly,  her  feet  clothed  in  scarlet  stockings  and 
Turkish  slippers  of  the  same  hue.  As  she  rose  from  the 
dressing-table,  the  last  amber  comb  in  place,  Lucy  walked 
round  her  as  usual,  pronounced  her  correct,  and  broke 
into  a  smile :  the  only  expression  of  satisfaction  or  admi- 
ration that  she  ever  permitted  herself. 

Upon  this  same  remarkable  Lucy  rested  the  heaviest 
responsibilities  of  the  night.  But  with  her,  a  truly  inval- 
uable maid,  nothing  save  her  Lady's  appearance  ever 
seemed  to  weigh  very  heavily.  As  Virginia  lay  back  in 
her  morris  chair,  watching  the  girl  move  about  the  room 
removing  all  traces  of  the  toilet,  putting  finishing  touches 
here  and  there  to  all  those  things  which,  unlike  other 
men,  Philip  was  wont  to  notice,  she  wondered  at  her, 
vaguely :  wondered  why  in  the  world  she  was  content  to 
remain  here,  year  by  year,  in  a  country  town,  where  her 
only  excitements  were  also  encumbered  with  danger  so 
great  that  few  would  have  endured  even  their  possibility 

170 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


for  a  day.  And  the  secret  of  Lucy's  faithfulness  seems 
explainable  only  on  one  score,  with  which  her  undoubted 
loyalty  to  Virginia,  the  beloved,  scarcely  seems  compat- 
ible.   Lucy,  in  fine,  was  an  enigma. 

When  everything  was  ready,  and  the  room  exactly 
what  it  should  have  been :  bower  and  background  for  any 
scene,  Lucy  Markle  turned  to  her  Mistress  and  suggested, 
quietly : 

"  Do  you  think.  Madam,  that  the  lights  should  go 
out  now  ?  " 

"The  lights,  Lucy?    Why?" 

She  made  a  deprecating  gesture.  "  Prudence  is  best, 
Mrs.  Van  Studdiford.  Mr.  Van  Studdiford  is  not  up- 
stairs yet.  We  have  got  to  wait  for  some  time;  and 
when  he  comes  up  he  ought  to  think  you  asleep. — There 
is  a  keyhole:  cracks,  perhaps.  They  would  show  light, 
and  then  he  might  wish  to  see  you,  you  know.  You 
should  lie  down.  I  will  listen  and  watch;  and*  when  it 
is  all  safe,  I  will  light  the  lamp  and  put  it  in  the  window." 

"  Is  it  still  raining,  Lucy  ?  "  asked  Virginia. 

"  Yes,  Madam." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Perhaps  both  women 
were  with  Philip,  there  in  the  darkness  and  wet.  Never- 
theless, both  knew  well  the  cost  of  one  false  step.  There- 
fore Virginia  said,  at  last,  faintly :  "  Put  them  out,  then." 

There  was  a  movement  from  Lucy,  a  click: — 
darkness. 

Two  hours  went  by.  Afterwards,  Virginia,  recalling 
every  incident  of  the  night,  remembered  so  little  of  these 
that   she   realized   that   she   must   have    dozed    after   a 

171 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


time.  And  yet  during  the  first  half-hour  she  had  cer- 
tainly been  sensible  of  each  passing  second.  Then  came 
a  period  of  oblivion.  After  that  she  was  aware,  after 
what  had  been  an  interminable  period,  of  Charles'  step 
on  the  stair.  It  seemed,  vaguely,  as  if  Lucy  ought  to 
come  now,  with  the  light.  Then  it  occurred  to  her  that 
Charles  must  have  sat  up  all  night :  that  it  was  morning, 
and  Philip  gone.  Even  this  did  not  fully  rouse  her.  She 
grew  more  and  more  insensible,  till,  suddenly,  there  was 
a  bright  light  in  her  eyes,  and  she  could  hear  Lucy's  voice, 
whispering : 

"  I  think  everything  is  safe,  now !  " 

Virginia  started  up.  Lucy  had  raised  the  shade  of  the 
middle  window  in  the  bay,  and  had  placed  in  it  a  small 
lamp,  brightly  burning.  Her  mistress  ran  to  the  adja- 
cent window,  raised  it  slightly,  and  knelt  down,  listening. 
One  minute  passed.  Two.  And  then,  from  the  darkness 
below,  whistled  in  Philip's  tones,  came,  low  and  clear,  the 
old,  familiar  air  from  Carmen: 

"  '  Toreador  enga-a-arde ! '  " 

Virginia  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  aflame.  "  Go, 
Lucy !    Quickly !    Quickly ! — Bring  him  to  me !  " 

Lucy,  shoeless,  moving  as  softly  as  a  cat,  left  the 
room,  passed  through  the  boudoir,  her  own  chamber, 
down  the  back  stairs,  and  step  by  step,  along  the  hall,  past 
the  smoking-room,  past  the  coat-closet,  to  the  side-door, 
the  lock  and  hinges  of  which  she  had  oiled  that  day. 

And  Virginia,  above,  was  also  occupied.  She  had  re- 
moved the  light  from  the  window,  and  closed  the  shade 
again.    The  lamp  she  placed  on  her  dressing-table,  where 

172 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


it  shed  a  soft  light  over  the  whole  room.  Then,  her  heart 
beating  furiously,  the  blood  pounding  through  her  tem- 
ples, she  waited — waited — waited,  for  the  arrival  of  Philip. 

The  four  or  five  minutes  that  passed  seemed  as  many 
years.  Then  came  a  buoyant  step  through  the  boudoir. 
Philip,  joyous,  triumphant,  stood  on  the  threshold  of  her 
room.  She  went  to  him,  slowly,  hands  outstretched,  her 
soul  in  her  eyes.  She  read  him,  hungrily,  and  in  the  read- 
ing found — all  that  she  wished.  After  the  long  embrace 
she  drew  off  a  little,  smiling  amid  tears. 

"  Have  you  come  through  the  air.  Prince,  without  hat 
or  coat  ?    We  thought  you  would  be  so  wet " 

"  Lucy  has  my  things.  They're  not  bad.  I've  been 
in  the  barn  nearly  all  the  time,  like  a  tramp,  O  my  be- 
loved ! "  and  he  smiled,  radiantly,  as  his  eyes  travelled 
over  her  perfect  figure. 

Virginia  also  smiled.  Then,  turning  to  the  table  that 
stood  near  at  hand,  she  drew  the  cloth  from  the  tray. 
"  This  is  our  supper,"  she  said.  "  There  is  only  a  bottle 
of  claret.    I  wouldn't  have  champagne,  because " 

"  Because  ?  "  he  repeated,  gently,  as  he  saw  her  lip 
quiver. 

"  Because  it  is  our — parting  night.  And  I  don't  want 
any — any  exhilaration.  I  must  be  just  myself; — you, 
yourself.    You  don't  mind  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  quietly.    And  she  was  satisfied. 

They  ate  the  little  meal — pate  sandwiches,  a  cold 
chicken,  strawberries, — together.  And,  as  they  ate,  their 
talk,  which  had  begun  with  a  pretense  at  g^yety,  grew 
broken,  and  faint.     Soon  Philip  pushed  his  plate  away, 

173 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


rose,  and,  head  bent,  hands  clasped  at  the  back,  began 
noiselessly  to  pace  the  room.  Virginia  sat  still,  watching 
him.  The  look  on  his  face  was  new  to  her.  It  disturbed 
her  not  a  little.  She  beheld  Philip  fighting,  for  one  of 
the  few  times  in  his  life,  between  two  powerful  inclina- 
tions. The  result  of  the  battle  as  well  as  its  subject  was 
announced  when,  suddenly,  he  turned  to  her  and  whis- 
pered, passionately : 

"  I  can't  leave  you !  " 

And  then — she  showed  her  strength.  As  he  stood  be- 
side her  she  laid  her  two  hands  upon  his  arm,  firmly: 

"  You  will  leave  me,"  she  said,  quietly,  "  before  the 
dawn.  But,  Philip,  when  the  war  is  over,  and  you  come 
back,  if — if  I  need  it,  if  I  ask  it,  if  I  can  bear  no  more 
from — him,"  she  made  a  slight  gesture,  "  will  you,  then, 
take  me  away  from  here,  for  always  ?  " 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "  It  is  what  I  want  above 
all  things  on  earth !  "  he  said. 

"  You  promise  ?  " 

"  I  swear  it !  " 

And  in  this  vow  he  was  sincere.  For  Philip  had  long 
since  transcended  his  own  nature.  He  loved  as  few  can 
love:  unselfishly. 


174 


CHAPTER    XI 

This  parting  with  Philip,  the  third  in  the  first 
year  of  their  love,  was,  despite  the  certain  dangers  of 
battle  into  which  her  beloved  was  going,  easier  to  Vir- 
ginia than  the  others  had  been.  She  now  had  certain 
effective  expedients  of  solitude  (how  painfully  learned!) 
that  could  be  depended  upon.  Moreover,  in  relinquishing 
Philip  to  the  honor  of  the  United  States  all  the  latent 
nobility,  the  heroism,  in  her,  was  appealed  to ;  and,  better 
yet,  Philip's  movements  would,  from  now  on,  be  part  of 
those  movements  which  every  newspaper  in  the  country 
would  be  occupied  in  watching  and  chronicling;  not  a 
printed  sheet  that  she  could  pick  up  all  through  the  sum- 
mer to  come,  but  would  have  for  her  almost  the  interest 
of  a  letter  from  him. 

During  the  following  months  of  Spring  and  Summer 
Virginia  devoted  herself,  for  hours  daily,  to  reading  the 
record  of  the  history  that  was  making  from  Cuba  to  the 
Philippines.  The  battles  of  Matanzas  and  Manila  Bay 
were  followed  with  a  prayerful  thankfulness  that  Philip 
was  not  in  the  navy;  and  then,  immediately,  she  would 
sicken  with  the  dread  of  that  danger  which  must  surely 
be  in  store  for  him. 

May  passed  almost  rapidly.  It  was  the  thirteenth  of 
that  month  before  the  First  Illinois  broke  camp  at  Spring- 

175 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


field  and  were  transported  Southward,  to  Camp  Thomas 
at  Chickamauga,  where  they  remained  only  a  fortnight, 
and  then  proceeded  to  Tampa,  with  but  one  more  stage 
between  them  and  the  heart  of  the  fighting.  From  the 
three  camps  Virginia  received  many  letters,  most  of  them 
sent,  under  cover,  to  Lucy;  a  few  direct  to  her,  in  order 
that  Charles'  suspicions,  if  he  had  any  now,  might  al- 
ways be  centred  around  his  wife: — Lucy  being  infinitely 
too  valuable  in  other  ways  to  run  the  risk  of  dismissal. 
These  letters,  and  all  that  followed  from  Cuba,  being 
especially  precious  to  Virginia,  she  kept  them  locked  in 
that  golden  box  given  her  as  a  wedding-present  by  Mme. 
Dupre.  And  to  this  same  Georgiana,  his  adored  sister, 
Philip,  before  he  left  for  Springfield,  had  entrusted,  for 
safe  keeping,  the  bundle  of  letters  written  by  Virginia 
while  he  was  in  the  West,  and,  later,  in  Chicago,  sepa- 
rated from  her. 

May  passed  without  any  action  in  that  small  island 
on  which  the  gaze  of  two  continents  was  centred.  June 
opened  with  the  junction  of  the  American  fleet  and  the 
Flying  Squadron  off  Santiago  de  Cuba.  Two  days  later 
the  country  was  ringing  with  the  names  of  Hobson  and 
his  seven  men.  Then  followed  various  skirmishes  round 
Camp  McCalla,  on  the  Guantanamo  shore.  Finally,  on 
the  thirteenth,  part  of  a  real  army,  under  Shafter,  left 
Tampa  for  Santiago;  and  thenceforward  the  United 
States  watched  with  bated  breath :  nor  found  the  waiting 
long. 

From  the  middle  of  June  till  the  first  of  July,  a  battle, 
the  first  great  land  battle  of  the  war,  was  expected  daily. 

176 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Reports  sent  Northward  were  confused,  contradictory, 
pregnant  with  possibilities.  Up  to  the  eighteenth  of  the 
month  Virginia  knew  that  the  First  Illinois  was  still  in 
Tampa.    After  that — no  one  was  sure. 

June  went  out  as  General  Merritt  sailed  for  the  Phil- 
ippines. July  entered  with  a  hush  of  foreboding  and  ex- 
pectancy that  centred  round  a  certain  mysterious  Cuban 
height.  At  the  beginning  of  this  week  of  weeks,  such  days 
as  had  not  been  known  since  American  women  had  knelt, 
trying  to  pray,  and  could  only  strain  their  ears  for  news 
from  Richmond,  began  the  great  strike  of  Newspaper 
stereotypers  in  Chicago.  For  four  days — ^the  vital  four, 
no  news  was  obtainable  of  what  was  going  on  at  Siboney, 
at  el  Caney,  at  San  Juan  Hill.  Rumor  was  abroad  in 
the  land.  Everyone  knew  that  a  great  battle  was  being 
fought.  No  one  knew  what  Illinois  regiments  were  en- 
gaged. One  could  only  wait,  hoping,  wretchedly,  that  in 
time  the  lists  of  dead  and  wounded  might  be  published 
correctly. 

How  it  happened  that  Virginia  endured  that  entire 
week  in  silence,  she  did  not  know.  Afterwards  it  came 
back  to  her  as  some  horrid  dream.  At  the  time,  all  that 
made  restraint  possible  was  Van  Studdiford's  own  great 
excitement.  Hitherto,  through  all  the  weeks  of  prepara- 
tion, he  had  viewed  the  situation  in  scornful  apathy.  He 
had  habitually  made  light  of  it;  and,  on  the  resignation 
of  the  Spanish  cabinet,  which  came  on  May  fifteenth,  he 
prophesied  that  peace  would  be  declared  inside  of  a  month. 
But  he  was  awake  at  last,  and  it  seemed  that  some  real 
patriotism  lay  hidden  in  his  nature.    No  one  could  fail  to 

177 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


understand  that  what  was  now  going  on  in  that  far- 
off  tropical  island  was  no  child's  play.  And  Virginia,  see- 
ing him  grow  red  and  furious  as  he  studied  the  meagre, 
ill-arranged  reports  in  the  single  sheet  of  the  Grangeford 
paper,  now  issued  daily,  found  it  far  easier  to  lock  within 
her  breast  all  the  sick  terror,  the  wretchedness  of  uncer- 
tainty, that  she  must  bear  alone. 

Sunday,  the  third  day  of  July  in  that  year  of  '98,  was 
a  day  to  be  remembered  forever.  After  luncheon,  Vir- 
ginia, her  head  aching  with  heat,  throbbing  with  the  noise 
of  premature  celebrations,  her  heart  sick  with  the  dread 
of  sudden  news,  retired  to  her  room  and  lay  down,  while 
Lucy  bathed  her  head  and  uttered  the  few  possible  words 
of  comfort :  all  those  "  perhapses  "  that  the  last  three  days 
had  worn  threadbare. 

Virginia  could  neither  rest  nor  sleep.  Her  brain  was 
on  fire,  her  imagination  taking  wildest  flights.  She  lay, 
her  eyes  closed,  staring  into  a  tropic  wilderness  dotted 
with  motionless,  prostrate,  khaki-coated  boys,  toward 
whose  bodies,  from  undetectable  concealment,  poured 
swift,  invisible  missiles  of  death.  She  saw  Philip  there, 
worn,  soiled,  haggard,  exhausted  with  fighting,  but  alive 
among  the  dead.  She  saw  the  gim  in  his  hand  raised 
unsteadily  to  his  shoulder.  She  watched  his  shaking 
aim.  And  then,  suddenly,  without  any  warning,  the  gun 
dropped.  He  swayed,  where  he  knelt.  His  arms  went 
up.  In  the  next  instant  he  was  numbered  with  the  rest 
of  the  motionless  ones  that  lay  upon  the  slippery  ground. 

When  this  vision  had  passed,  many  times,  before  her 
mental  vision,  Virginia  rose,  and  half  hysterically  bade 

178 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Lucy  leave  her.  She  could  not  but  believe,  in  her  secret 
heart,  that  that  scene  had  been  sent  her — a  photograph 
of  Philip's  present.  Numbed  by  that  fear,  she  rose  and 
rearranged  her  hair,  dressed  herself,  pinned  a  rose  in  her 
belt,  where  it  resembled  a  splash  of  blood  on  the  white 
of  her  gown,  and  went  downstairs.  Aimlessly  seeking 
any  distraction,  she  passed  through  the  screen  of  the  front 
door,  and  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  broad  veranda, 
watching  a  band  of  little  boys  across  the  road  place  a 
battery  of  crackers  in  a  mud  fort. 

The  day  had  been  intensely  hot ;  but  a  light  breeze  had 
suddenly  risen  in  the  east  and  blew  across  Virginia's 
cheek  like  a  caress  from  a  gentle  hand.  She  was  suddenly 
transported,  in  memory,  to  that  day,  just  a  year  before, 
that  Sunday,  the  second  of  the  month,  when  Philip  had 
come  home  from  the  West.  How  vivid,  how  pitiless, 
the  memory  was!  No  day  in  her  whole  life — ^not  her 
wedding-day,  was  impressed  so  clearly  upon  her  mind. 
Standing  here  now,  she  could  breathe  the  fragrance  of 
the  orchard,  hear  the  ripple  of  the  river,  see  the  melting 
softness  of  the  long,  dying  shadows  of  that  exquisite 
evening  when  he  had  come  to  her,  come  back  to  her, 
among  the  orchard  trees. 

Leaning  her  tired  head  against  a  pillar,  she  surren- 
dered herself  to  this  memory,  and  let  it  tear  as  it  would 
at  her  heart-strings.  Around  her  poured  the  radiant  July 
sunlight.  The  drone  of  bees  mingled  itself  with  the  sharp 
"  crack  1  crack !  "  from  the  miniature  fort.  This  great, 
Northern  world,  echoing  faintly  the  din  of  long-won  bat- 
tles, was  infinitely  peaceful.    By  degrees,  in  the  sunshine, 

179 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


her  vision  of  blood  was  blotted  out  and  replaced  by  other 
pictures. 

Suddenly,  with  a  sharpness  that  made  her  quiver,  the 
telephone,  which  hung  in  the  hall,  rang  loudly.  She  had 
started  toward  it  when  Van  Studdiford  unexpectedly 
emerged  from  the  library  and  took  up  the  receiver.  After 
his  "  hello  "  there  were  some  seconds — half  a  minute, 
perhaps — of  silence.  Virginia  found  that  she  was  listen- 
ing intently.  Then  there  burst  from  Charles'  lips  the 
two  words : 

"Good  God!" 

The  world  around  her  grew  black.  She  remained 
against  the  pillar,  perfectly  still,  her  eyes  shut,  watching, 
watching  over  Philip,  as  he  lay,  quiet,  in  the  wilderness. 

After  a  moment  or  two  Charles  came  out  to  the 
veranda,  looked  at  her,  curiously,  but  discovered  noth- 
ing unusual  in  her  appearance. 

"  It  was  a  telegram  from  Clowry,  of  the  Western 
Union,"  he  said.  "  There  being  no  papers,  he  is  sending  a 
few  messages  to  friends. — It  is  reported  that  the  Span- 
iards have  mined  the  trenches  before  Santiago,  and  have 
blown  up  a  thousand  of  our  men, — There's  been  a  big  sea- 
fight,  too,  but  nobody  knows  yet  how  it's  gone." 

Though  the  world  still  spun,  Virginia  opened  her  eyes. 
"  What — regiments  were  in  the  trenches  ?  "  she  asked, 
hoarsely. 

Charles  glared  at  her,  perceiving  instantly  where  her 
thoughts  lay.  "  I  have  not  heard  where  the  First  is,"  he 
said,  shortly.  Then,  turning  on  his  heel,  he  reentered  the 
house. 

i8o 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


The  suspense  lasted  for  two  more  days.  Then  the 
Chicago  strike  ended,  and  East  and  West  joined  in  enthu- 
siastic praise  of  the  victories  by  land  and  sea,  the  heroism 
of  the  Regular  Army,  the  unparalleled  daring  of  the 
Rough  Riders.  It  was  a  week  more  before  a  letter  from 
Atkinson  arrived,  proving  to  Virginia  the  folly  of  visions. 
But  the  letters  that  came  from  him  thereafter,  from  July 
to  September,  while  less  passionate  than  some  that  had 
gone  before,  told  so  much,  so  well,  from  a  volunteer 
point  of  view,  that  they  would  have  formed  rather  a 
valuable  little  addition  to  the  regimental  annals.  The 
first  letter  began  thus : 

"  On  Board  Transport  *  Carey,'  en  route  for — 
"  Shafter  may  know  where  !  Key  West,  July  3,  *g8. 

"  If  I  hadn't  brought  with  me,  and  you  hadn't  added  to, 
a  large  package  of  your  letters,  I  should  certainly  be  tempt- 
ed to  desert :  for  the  sake  of  standing  on  dry  land  for  five 
minutes,  and  learning  what  has  happened,  behind  us  and 
before.  There  is  a  rumor — we  live  on  rumors — that  the 
boys  at  Siboney  are  waiting  for  our  arrival  to  storm  San- 
tiago. If  so,  we're  giving  the  Spaniards  plenty  of  time 
to  make  their  wills — and  a  little  over.  We've  been  at  an- 
chor here,  in  heat  that  would  turn  a  lobster  red  in  the 
water,  for  three  mortal  days,  and  no  shore  leave  for  any- 
one.— It  is  surely  the  '  Board  of  Strategy  '  at  Washington 
that  have  had  this  inspiration.  Ugh!  All  the  same,  a 
man  of  Hart's  company  did  get  ashore,  last  night  (I've 
just  heard  this),  sent  a  message  to  his  family,  by  some 
outrageous  bluff  to  the  official  operator,  and  also  came 
back  with  enough  astonishing  tales  to  keep  us  all  busy 

181 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


cursing  for  another  day  or  two.  He  says  that  el  Caney 
and  San  Juan  Hill  have  been  carried,  and  all  the  work 
done.  But  as  we've  been  hearing  variations  of  the  same 
thing  for  two  weeks  or  so,  no  one  does  more  than  whis- 
per it  to  his  neighbor  and  then  wink. — By  Heaven,  if  it's 
true! — We'll  be  the  maddest  lot  of  recruits  that  ever 
escaped  the  surgeon ! 

" Virginia !    Do  you  hate  me  for  daring  to  think 

of  anything,  care  for  anything,  but  you,  while  I  write — or 
while  I  work,  or  eat  or  sleep  ?  Belove.d ! — I  can't  deny 
that  I  do,  really,  care  for  the  things  I  have  before  me  now. 
But,  indeed,  it  is  the  image  of  you  in  my  heart — in  my 
soul,  my  beautiful  one! — that  makes  these  delays  bear- 
able, the  heat  endurable,  and  all  the  hardships  and  rough- 
nesses of  camp  of  so  little  consequence.  For  the  last 
fortnight  in  Tampa  I  told  you  that  we  were  chosen  out 
of  nearly  a  dozen  other  regiments  for  extra  guard  duty 
at  the  wharves. — I  didn't  say  that  every  three  days  I  had 
to  be  on  duty  for  a  straight  twenty-four  hours.  At  night 
I  could  always  keep  myself  alert  by  remembering  as  many 
beautiful  pictures  you  have  made  for  me,  as  many  of 
your  exquisite  poses,  as  I  could.  I  never  got  beyond 
six  or  eight :  for  they  brought  you  so  close  that  I — well, 
I  thought  of  anything  on  earth  in  order  to  drag  my 
thoughts  away  again. — My  Beautiful ! — My  beautiful 
woman !  Be  patient.  Be  true  to  me.  For  I  am  coming 
back  to  you ;  and  there  will  come  a  day  when  we  shall  not 
part  again. — Oh,  God !  Will  that  happiness  really  come  ? 

"  I've  just  been  on  deck,  to  heai^more  rumors  to  the 
182 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


effect  that  we  sail  to-morrow.  These  delays  are  bad  in 
more  ways  than  one.  If  a  soldier  can  actually  settle  down 
to  patience  and  philosophy,  he  has  lost  his  keenness  for 
active  service  when  the  time  comes  to  show  it.  If  he  is 
rampant  (and  we  all  are)  at  delays  that  seem  absolutely 
unnecessary,  he  wears  himself  completely  out,  fretting. 

"  We're  really  quite  an  imposing  sight  when  we  get 
under  way.  There  are  the  First  Illinois — what  Lieuten- 
ants do  you  know  in  that  distinguished  regiment.  Madam  ? 
— the  First  D.  C,  two  divisions  of  Randolph's  artillery, 
and  a  wagon  train,  all  on  transports,  under  guard  of  two 
squat  gunboats,  the  *  Helena '  and  the  '  Mathias,'  besides 
a  sea-going  tug.  We  manage  to  make  about  five  miles 
an  hour — perhaps  six,  at  our  wildest.  But  apparently 
now  we  have  stopped  never  to  move  again. 

"  *  Dream  of  my  delight,'  that  is  not  how  I  shall  come 
to  you. — I  catch  myself  whistling  the  '  Toreador '  song 
twenty  times  a  day ;  and  I  always  break  off  with  an  ache 
in  my  heart. — Oh,  there  will  be  red  roses  in — our  room — 
again,  some  night! 

"  Write  me  always.  The  letters  are  so  slow  in  coming 
that  I  starve  for  them,  and  need  a  great  many  at  once  to 
make  up  for  the  endless  waiting. 

"  I  kiss  your  hands,  your  eyes,  your  lips,  your  heart  I 

"  Philip." 

"  In  the  Trenches,  East  of  Santiago, 
"July  tfth  (afternoon). 

(Written  on  sheets  torn  from  an  old  note  book,  en- 
closed in  a  very  dirty  envelope,  and  addressed,  as  it  was 
written,  in  pencil.) 

183 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  My  Darling  :  Forgive  me,  first  of  all,  for  the  con- 
ventional beginning,  which  you  dislike.  It  is  so  good  to 
write  out  the  word  that  has  made  the  last  three  days  en- 
durable !  I  shall  apologize  for  nothing  else.  It  is  enough 
that  I  am  able  to  write  you  at  all. 

"  If  you  could  see  me !  No — I  should  fly  from  you. — 
I  haven't  washed  since  we  left  the  transport,  though  I 
have  been  soaked  through  most  of  that  time.  I  have  a  four 
days'  growth  of  beard  on  my  face.  My  clothes  are  so 
wrinkled,  and  shrunken  and  muddy  that  the  uniform 
isn't  distinguishable.  My  shelter  is  a  tree ;  for  there  isn't 
a  tent  in  the  regiment.  I've  had  one  hunk  of  hard-tack 
and  a  lump  of  beef  as  big  as  my  thumb  since  morning; 
for  it's  my  day  out  of  the  trenches ;  and  we  get  less  to 
eat  when  we're  '  resting.' 

"  Rest ! — I  have  more  of  it  than  the  others,  though ; 
for  I  carry  the  joy  of  you  everywhere  in  my  heart.  And 
with  all  the  discomfort,  you  needn't  think  of  us  as  in  very 
great  danger  here.  The  real  danger  is  in  the  climate : — 
weeks  of  alternate  cloud-bursts,  and  heat  that  only  one 
word  can  describe. 

"  I  love  you,  my  woman  of  women !  I  have  wor- 
shipped you  enough,  in  the  last  four  days,  to  canonize  you 
— if  you  only  knew.  I've  no  idea  when  or  where  I  can 
write  again.  But  my  first  and  last  thoughts  are  all  of 
my  Lady.    Write,  then  I    I'm  so  hungry  for  a  word ! 

"  Philip. 

"  P.  S.  You'd  shout  with  laughter  if  you  could  see 
the  Colonel's  Shirt  I  " 


184 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


"  Camp  on  Kettle  Hill,  Jufy  20th. 

"  Well,  it  is  all  over.  After  all  we  only  came  in,  as 
you  will  know  by  now,  for  the  tail  end  of  everything. 
The  glory  belongs  entirely  to  the  Rough  Riders,  I  sup- 
pose. But  I  swear  no  lot  of  men  ever  spent  a  worse  week 
than  we  did — from  the  night  of  the  tenth  to  the  seven- 
teenth, the  day  of  the  g^eat  surrender. 

"  We  have  seen  few  heroics,  and  none  of  the  cere- 
monial. One  or  two  tents  and  some  decent  food  had 
come  up  from  Siboney,  and  we  were  preparing  to  settle 
down  respectably  to  a  sort  of  Vicksburg  period  of  sharp- 
shooting  and  trench-work,  when  the  miserable  Dons  hung 
out  their  white  flag.  Wish  we  had  an  enemy  worth  while ! 
Then,  on  the  eighteenth,  we,  we,  the  *  dandy  first,'  were 
ordered  up  here  to  take  care  of  a  couple  of  thousand 
*  Caballeros,'  much  better  fed  and  housed  than  we  are, 
and  to  see  that  none  of  'em  escape ; — which  they  wouldn't 
do  if  they  could.    So  behold  your  lover  a  Turnkey ! 

"  From  force  of  habit,  I  write  those  things  that  occupy 
my  mind.  You  seem  infinitely  far  away  from  me  to-day ; 
for  I  am  beginning  to  realize  what  an  endless,  dull  busi- 
ness the  finishing  up  of  this  war  is  going  to  be.  We  fel- 
lows are  all  sore  that  we  seemed  to  be  hauled  in  only  at 
the  last  moment,  after  the  real  fighting  had  been  done, 
just  to  take  up  the  tedious  work.  Oh,  when  I  think  that, 
during  the  four  tremendous  days,  we  lay  still,  like  idiots, 
in  little  boats  off  Key  West,  I'm  ready  to  lay  about  me 
with  a  bayonet !  This  may  not  be  soldierly  talk ;  but  no- 
body knows  quite  how  much  it " 

•         •         •         •         •         •         •         •• 

18  185 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


(An  hour  later.) 
"  The  most  beautiful  interruption !  Oh  my  beloved — 
my  beloved — you  are  there,  a  star  in  the  North,  waiting 
for  me !  You  know,  by  now,  surely,  that  I  am  quite  safe, 
that  we  were  not  at  San  Juan  Hill. — And  the  yarn  of 
the  mined  trenches  is  only  one  of  a  thousand  impossible 
lies.  How  could  an  enemy  mine  a  new  trench,  held,  night 
and  day,  by  the  men  that  dug  it  ?  We  don't  all  sleep  on 
duty,  you  know, — though  sleeping  under  fire  really  gets 
to  be  quite  simple,  the  Twelfth  Regulars  tell  us. 

"  Grangeford !  Dear,  dull,  dry  Grangeford !  And 
you  in  it,  at  the  mercy  of  that  miserable  pack  of  women. — 
Marion  Hunt,  dearest,  was  born  to  be  an  old  maid ;  and 
I  don't  think  anyone  ever  dreamed  of  disturbing  the 
Lord's  plan.  Do  you  wonder  that  bitterness  has  taken 
root  in  her? — Sweet  Lady,  do  not  let  them  disturb  you. 
Ah,  my  promise  was  from  the  heart !  I  will  come  to  you. 
And  you  and  I  will  finish  our  lives  together,  somewhere 
far  beyond  the  little  world,  finding  heaven  years  before 
we  die. 

"  I  want  to  stop  writing,  now.  I  want  just  to  lie 
and  dream  of  you.  You  are  suddenly  so  near,  so  real, 
so  blessed !    God  in  His  mercy  keep  you  for  me ! 

"  Philip.  " 

"Camp  HosprrAL,  August  i6ih. 

"  I  have  been  here  for  four  days,  Virginia ;  but  I  really 
don't  know  why.  I  am  not  especially  ill.  And  yet,  all 
the  quinine  and  whiskey  a  fellow  can  absorb  won't  coun- 
teract the  effect  of  this  climate  on  a  Northern  constitution. 

i86 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  This  is  my  good  day.  Sanborn,  our  senior  Major 
and  the  best  fellow  alive,  found  me,  unexpectedly,  in  a  fit 
of  '  shakes  '  last  Sunday.  He  sent  one  of  the  surgeons  up 
to  me,  and  then  they  brought  me  here.  There  are  plenty 
of  us,  I  can  tell  you.  Some  of  them  are  bad;  and  it's 
maddening  to  listen  to  them  calling  out  for  their  families. 
But  I  don't  think  it's  going  hard  with  me.  It  is  too  slow 
coming. 

"  I'm  a  little  tired.  I  wish  it  was  time  for  the  breeze. 
That's  heaven. — ^You're  heaven,  too,  Virginia.  I  always 
adore  you.  But  you  see,  dear,  this  pen  is  a  bad  one,  and 
the  nurse  is  watching  me.    Good-bye  for  awhile. 

"  Philip." 

^  ........         . 

"Mont AUK  Point,  Long  Island, 
"  Sunday,  September  loth. 

"  This  is  the  most  perfect  camp  in  the  world.  And 
Long  Island  is  the  most  beautiful  place  in  the  world — 
except  one.  And  if  you  were  here,  my  Virginia,  this 
would  be  the  happiest  day  I  have  ever  known.  For  I  am 
convalescent,  at  last.  This  morning  I  was  allowed  to 
have  my  clothes  on  and  walk  about.  I  have  had  ice-cream 
for  my  Sunday  dinner:  it  hasn't  tasted  so  good  since  I 
was  five.  And  now,  after  an  enforced  nap,  I  am  per- 
mitted the  blessedness  of  writing  to  you.  It  is  so  long, 
dear,  since  I  heard  from  you.  Surely  you  haven't  known 
where  I  was,  or  you  would  have  written  to  me — ?  I 
have  been  able  to  read  a  little  for  a  week ;  but  I've  only 
cared  to  see  something  in  your  handwriting.  I  had  the 
old  letters  brought  me  from  my  kit  as  soon  as  I  came  to 

187 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


myself  at  all;  and  I  keep  them  under  my  pillow  right 
along.    They  make  me  sleep  so  well ! 

"  But  it  isn't  possible,  is  it  ?  that  you  are  tired  of  me  ? 
It  isn't  possible  that  I  am  just  a  vain  fool,  lying  here 
dreaming  of  your  love,  when  I  was  only  the  object  of 
some  passing  fancy  that  you  have  already  forgotten? 
Great  God,  Virginia,  if  I  believed  this — I  would  enlist  in 
the  regular  army,  and  be  oflf  for  Porto  Rico  in  a  week! 
I  couldn't  bear  it!    I 

"  But  that's  not  true.  I  know  you  better,  royal  Lady. 
It  can  never  be  true  that,  after  all  we  have  been  through — 
all  we  have  loved,  all  we  have  suffered,  you  didn't  really 
care,  with  all  your  soul,  as  I  did !  Is  it  ? — Oh,  I  shouldn't 
have  believed  I  could  be  so  abject  before  any  woman.  Do 
you  know  what  I  have  dreamed  about,  whenever  I  have 
been  sane  enough  to  control  my  dreams  at  all?  I  have 
been  dreaming  that  I  might  go  back  to  the  old  Grange- 
ford  place.  I  have  dreamed  of  working  for  Charles  again. 
Yes,  actually !  For  the  sake  of  living  in  the  same  house 
with  you,  I  wish  to  forget  all  that  passed,  on  Christmas 
day,  between  him  and  me.    I  want  a  reconciliation, 

"  Must  I  believe  that  you  are  indifferent  to  this  ? 
Must  I  force  myself  not  to  dream  till  I  hear  your  decision  ? 
Well,  I  shall  have  a  relapse,  and  die. — I  feel  it  beginning 
already. — No,  my  Lady,  it  is  not  fever.  It  is  a  relapse 
of  love;  and,  as  you  have  long  known,  mine  is  a  fatal 
case.  Beloved,  I  love  you !  I  love  you ! — I  hold  you  in 
my  arms.  Write  me,  then,  the  instant  you  receive  this, 
and  bring  me  back  to  life  again.  Philip." 


i88 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  Grangeford,  Wednesday,  September  ijth. 

"  Philip !  Philip !  Philip !  Shall  I  laugh,  or  cry,  or 
do  both  at  once?  I  have  done  all  three  since  Lucy  gave 
me  your  letter,  this  afternoon.  It  has  released  me  from 
the  keenest  agony  I  have  ever  known.  Oh,  you  cannot 
dream  what  the  last  month  has  been !  Your  poor,  pitiful 
little  letter  from  the  Cuban  hospital  took  ten  days  getting 
to  me.  Then,  I  simply  deluged  you  with  letters.  Did 
not  one  of  them  really  reach  you?  Where  in  the  world 
have  they  gone,  then?  Oh,  what  a  hateful  mail  system 
we  have  I  Dispatches  and  business  letters  are  never  lost ; 
but  our  kind — the  letters  of  the  heart  and  soul — are  not 
thought  to  be  worth  delivery! 

"  My  boy !  If  only  I  could  get  to  you !  If  I  could  take 
you  into  my  arms  and  breathe  into  you  all  the  strength 
of  my  love !  Oh,  it  seems  to  me  I  cannot  live,  with  you 
there,  alone,  suffering! 

"  But,  dear,  even  if  my  letters  did  not  get  to  you,  how 
could  you,  how  dared  you,  doubt  me  ?  After  what  I  have 
done,  after  all  I  have  endured  through  this  hideous  sum- 
mer, could  you,  for  one  instant,  accuse  me  of  a  'passing 
fancy '  ? — Cruel ! 

"  And  now  about  your  *  dream  ' : — that  adorable 
dream,  that  /  have  had  ever  since  the  twenty-sixth  of 
last  December.  Absurd,  or  miserable,  man,  to  ask  for  my 
*  decision.'  What  do  you  suppose  it  is  ?  I  pray  you,  on 
my  knees,  to  come  home,  at  once.  I  pray  you  to  be  recon- 
ciled to  Charles,  at  whatever  cost.  What  shall  I  do  ?  Can 
I  help,  in  any  way?  Ah,  he  suspects  me,  you  know.  It 
would  never  do  for  me  to  speak  your  name  to  him.    But 

189 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


if  there  is  anything  else — if  I  could  write  your  brothers, 
or  go  to  see  Mme.  Dupre,  to  ask  her  to  use  her  influence  ? 
— Oh!  you  will  let  me  help  you,  will  you  not? 

"  Only,  my  darling,  come  to  me.  If  you  do  not,  soon, 
I  cannot  endure  it.  I  have  borne  the  summer,  because 
you  were  so  far  beyond  my  reach.  But  oh !  The  terror ! 
— the  terror  after  that  letter  written  in  the  trenches !  Do 
you  know,  in  the  very  least,  what  it  means  to  be  a  woman, 
a  wretched,  stay-at-home  woman,  with  all  she  loves  in 
such  hideous  danger? — I  didn't  sleep  for  weeks.  How 
it  has  all  been  concealed,  I  do  not  know.  There  have  been 
days  when  my  brain  has  been  positively  turned. 

"  But  it  is  over.  You  are  coming  home.  Yes !  Yes ! 
You  are  coming  home.  Everyone  says  that  the  volun- 
teers are  to  be  mustered  out  immediately;  and,  even 
before  that,  you  will  get  leave.  I  love  you.  Therefore 
you  will  come  to  me. — Do  you  like  my  logic,  Monsieur  ? 

"  I  could  write  to  you  for  a  whole  month,  of  course, 
without  once  pausing.  But,  you  see,  it  is  eleven  o'clock, 
and  there  must  not  be  a  light  in  my  room  when  Charles 
comes  up.    You  want  me  to  stop  now,  don't  you  ? 

"  With  love,  and  love  and  love !  all  there  is  in  the 
world!" 

(A  telegram  sent  to  Mme.  Eugene  Dupre,  Lexington 
Hotel,  Chicago,  September  20th,  1898.) 

"  Three  months'  leave.  Start  for  Chicago  to-day.  Am 
coming  to  you.  Philip." 


190 


CHAPTER    XII 

Atkinson  reached  Chicago  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
twenty-third  of  September: — a  Saturday.  And,  from 
that  day  to  the  third  week  in  October,  the  time,  for  him 
and  the  little  group  of  people  to  whom  he  formed  a  centre 
of  interest,  was  filled  with  that  incomprehensible  pur- 
poselessness  of  behavior  that  makes  Life  so  continual  a 
puzzle  to  the  reasoning  onlooker.  Most  of  this  wasting  of 
opportunity  Philip  was  entirely  responsible  for.  By  every 
law  of  human  nature  and  human  consistency,  he  should 
have  rushed  off  to  Grangeford,  openly  or  secretly,  on  the 
day  or  night  of  September  24th.  Actually,  it  was  a  month 
before  he  made  any  attempt  to  see  the  woman  he  had 
professed  to  and  really  did  love  so  recklessly.  His  con- 
duct, however,  was  clear  not  even  to  himself.  It  was 
certainly  anything  but  clear  to  the  unhappy  Virginia, 
for  whom  this  one  month  was  longer  than  the  past  six 
had  been.  She  wrote  two  letters  to  Philip:  the  first  ex- 
quisitely tender  and  loving ;  the  second  a  passion  of  anger, 
of  misery,  of  reproach — that  came  near  taking  him  to 
her.  But — oh  ye  little  gods ! — the  thing  which,  at  the  last 
minute,  held  him  back,  was  the  fact  that,  during  his  fever, 
his  head  had  been  shaved ;  and  he  felt  that  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  let  Virginia  see  him  with  a  mere  sus- 
picion of  dark  fuzz  replacing  the  former  well-brushed, 
irrepressible  black  locks !    Of  such  is  the  nature  of  man. 

191 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Meantime,  Philip  was  by  no  means  unhappy.  Civil- 
ization, tempting  food,  old  haunts,  old  companions,  and, 
whenever  he  wished  it,  a  very  pretty  drawing-room  and  a 
very  charming  woman,  Georgiana,  at  his  disposal,  were 
soul-satisfying  luxuries,  after  the  rough  camp  life  and 
the  clean  bareness  of  the  hospital.  He  was  also  gaining 
strength  every  day;  and  the  assiduous  use  of  hair-tonic 
had  been  productive  of  gratifying  results.  By  the  second 
week  in  October  his  brain  was  afire  twenty  times  a  day 
at  thought  of  Virginia;  and  he  knew  that  he  could  not 
much  longer  delay  action  there.  He  even  began  to  take 
to  himself  a  little  melancholy  credit  for  having  so  long 
resisted  the  temptation  of  possibly  compromising  her! 
For  these  various  reasons,  then,  one  evening,  late  in  the 
month,  when  his  Brothers  happened  to  be  dining  at  the 
Lexington,  Master  Philip  took  occasion  to  open  up,  very 
diplomatically,  the  possibility  of  his  returning  to  Charles' 
service. 

Leslie  and  James,  properly  unsuspicious  of  ulterior 
motives,  proved  amenable  to  an  unhoped-for  degree.  In- 
deed, they  were  extremely  desirous  of  seeing  their  erratic 
Brother  once  more  in  the  care  of  his  admirable  cousin. 
(Alas!  How  many  times  had  not  these  estimable  men 
wished  that  Brother  and  Cousin  might  have  been  changed 
about!)  And  they  were  very  willing  to  treat  with  Van 
Studdiford,  provided  only  that  Philip  were  resolved  to  be- 
have as  well  as  possible  in  future  should  they  succeed  in 
their  attempt  at  reinstatement.  This  task  they  had  per- 
formed twice  before ;  and  they  felt  that  this  time  they  had 
more  than  usual  to  urge  in  Philip's  favor.    Certainly,  as  a 

192 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


soldier  he  had  acquitted  himself  well,  having  already 
received  papers  promoting  him  to  a  captaincy  of  volun- 
teers. And  he  had,  moreover,  been  given  to  understand 
that  there  would  be  little  difficulty,  did  he  wish  it,  in  ob- 
taining a  commission  in  the  regular  army.  A  high  honor, 
truly,  for  Philip !  However,  the  mustering  out  of  the  vol- 
unteers was  close  at  hand ;  and  even  the  Brothers  never  for 
a  moment  considered  the  possibility  of  Philip's  entering 
the  regular  army :  a  thing  which  he  would  certainly  have 
done  had  it  not  been  for  a  certain  worn  and  fragile  woman 
in  Grangeford. 

After  the  coffee  had  been  served,  solemn  James  and 
dignified  Leslie,  each  assuming  an  air  a  trifle  more  dig- 
nified, a  little  more  solemn,  inquired,  very  delicately,  into 
the  exact  cause  of  the  quarrel  between  Charles  and  Philip 
which  had  resulted  in  the  last  separation.  Philip 
shrugged  and  explained: 

"  Van  Studdiford  had  been  bilious  for  a  month.  He 
was  also  very  much  annoyed,  about  that  time,  over  a  delay 
in  his  project  of  a  branch  house  in  Phoenix.  It  promised 
to  be  a  fine  investment ;  but  the  land  he  insisted  upon  get- 
ting was  very  mixed  as  to  title.  I  did  my  best  to  work  the 
thing  out  correctly;  but  there  was  one  point  that  wasn't 
to  be  straightened.  He  charged  me  with  bungling  it. — 
Of  course,  I  didn't  care  to  force  him  to  keep  me,  if  he 
was  dissatisfied  with  my  work." 

The  Brothers  stared  at  each  other,  neither  one  of 
them  noticing  the  very  amused  expression  that  had  ap- 
peared on  their  sister's  face.  It  seemed  an  unreasonable 
thing  on  Charles'  part  to  have  dismissed  Philip  for  a 

193 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


thing  which  a  lawyer  perhaps  could  not  have  managed. 
But  it  was  like  Philip,  very  like  Philip,  of  course,  to  have 
flown  into  a  temper  and  resigned  his  position  because  his 
employer  was  reproving  him,  perhaps  not  without  reason, 
for  some  piece  of  carelessness.  While  the  Brothers  turned 
these  things  over  in  their  minds,  Philip  and  Georgiana 
were  carrying  on  a  telegraphic  conversation  of  glances ; 
and  Philip  was  learning  that  his  sister,  who  suspected 
something  of  the  real  situation,  considered  that  he  had 
made  very  poor  work  of  inventing  his  excuse. 

At  a  quarter  to  eleven,  after  a  little  more  talking  and 
a  tacit  understanding  that  Charles  was  to  be  approached 
very  soon,  the  elder  Atkinsons  departed  toward  their 
sober  apartment  on  Indiana  Avenue ;  and  Philip  and  Mme. 
Dupre  were  left  alone  together  in  her  green  drawing- 
room. 

Georgiana  was  the  most  tactful  of  women;  but  she 
had,  in  her  complex  nature,  a  very  large  amount  of  curios- 
ity concerning  the  affairs  of  people  whom  she  cared  for. 
When  the  Brothers  had  gone,  then,  she  gave  Philip  to 
understand  that  it  was  not  yet  bed-time.  She  settled  him 
comfortably  in  a  deep  chair,  with  a  decanter  of  Bourbon 
and  a  syphon  at  his  elbow ;  and  then  seated  herself  oppo- 
site him,  took  a  cigarette  from  the  gold  case  at  her  belt, 
lighted  it,  daintily,  and  began  to  scrutinize  her  Brother 
through  the  smoke. 

Philip  endured  the  survey  serenely.  Georgiana  was 
welcome  to  probe,  when  he  and  she  were  alone  together. 
He  had  forgotten  her  presence,  indeed,  and  had  let  himself 
drift  to  Grangeford,  when  she  began,  softly: 

194 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  Philip,  mon  cher,  that  charming  Uttle  girl — Charles' 
wife  (both  times  I  have  seen  her  she  has  made  me  think 
of  nothing  so  much  as  a  rare  piece  of  porcelain), — is  it 
not  really  she  who  is  at  the  bottom  of  this  quarrel  between 
you  and  our  stout  cousin  ?  " 

Philip's  lips  curved  into  a  slight  smile.  Tete-a-tete 
with  her  he  was  not  dismayed  at  her  inspirations. 
"  What  made  you  so  amused  over  it,  before  those  infer- 
nal sticks  ?  " 

She  laughed  outright,  this  time.  "  Cheri — it  was  only 
James'  expression.  Forgive  me.  But  I  can  never  get 
•  used  to  him.  Where  did  they  get  their  dreariness  ?  "  She 
paused,  and  Atkinson  did  not  fill  the  silence.  Then,  tak- 
ing the  situation  into  her  hands  again,  she  ventured :  "  But 
you  have  tired  of  the  little  lady?  She  has  ceased  to 
interest  this  fickle  brother  of  mine  ?  " 

"  No,  by  Heaven,  she  has  not ! — She  will  never  cease 
to  interest  me. — Georgie,  I  can't  put  her  away  from  me 
for  an  hour !  " 

"  Vraiment ! — then,  why — why — why ! — Good  Heav- 
ens, Philip,  if  a  man  made  love  to  me,  and  came  home, 
after  a  six  months'  absence,  to  stay  eighty  miles  away 
from  me  for  a  month,  I  should — hate  him  forever !  " 

Philip  looked  over  at  her,  surveyed,  lazily,  her  per- 
fect figure  in  its  decollete  gown  of  shining  jet,  her 
finely-moulded,  passionate  face,  her  deep  blue  eyes,  her 
high  crown  of  vivid  hair,  and  said,  softly :  "  No  man, 
dear,  who  had  had  the  great  luck  to  take  your  fancy, 
could  stay  away  from  you  for  three  days." 

As  she  laughed,  a  little  color  crept  up  her  face;  for 
195 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Philip's  praise  meant  more  to  her  than  that  of  a  lover. 
Nevertheless,  she  would  not  drop  her  point.  "  Have  you 
given  a  thought  to  that  poor  child's  suffering,  Philip  ?  " 

He  rose  quickly.  "  What  a  wicked  mind  you  have,"  he 
observed,  with  the  smile  that  came  only  from  his  eyes. 
"  Don't  you  realize  how  much  better  it  would  be  for  her 
if  she  never  saw  me  again  ?  " 

She  also  rose,  meeting  his  hard  look  with  one  of  great 
tenderness.  "  There  is  no  woman  in  the  world  who  could 
be  better  off  for  not  seeing  you,  Philip !  " 

This,  from  the  fellow's  sister ! 

There  were  no  men  in  Chicago,  few  in  the  whole 
West,  perhaps,  more  respectable,  more  trustworthy,  more 
honorable,  than  Leslie  and  James  Atkinson.  On  the  first 
Saturday  after  their  talk  with  Philip  they  journeyed  to 
Grangeford  and  met  Van  Studdiford,  by  appointment,  in 
his  office  at  eleven  o'clock.  Charles  received  them  cour- 
teously and  coldly ;  for  he  had  an  inkling  of  their  errand. 
Undisturbed,  however,  by  his  manner,  which,  indeed, 
they  considered  admirably  suited  to  any  business,  they 
proceeded  at  once  to  their  task,  and  really  acquitted  them- 
selves very  creditably :  James  presenting  their  wish  and 
arguing  the  advisability  of  its  adoption,  and  Leslie  hold- 
ing himself  in  readiness  to  answer  questions. 

Charles  gave  them  no  answer  that  day.  But  when 
they  took  their  departure,  having  declined  his  invitation 
to  luncheon,  he  promised  them  a  decision  by  letter  on  the 
following  Monday ;  wherewith  they  expressed  themselves 
satisfied. 

196 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


After  they  had  gone  Charles  sat,  for  an  hour  or  more, 
over  his  desk,  thinking.  It  was  not  so  much  the  force 
of  James'  reasoning  which  caused  him  to  hesitate  at  his 
first,  quick  thought  that  it  was  impossible  for  Philip 
ever  to  come  to  Grangeford  again.  It  was  Philip's  own 
recent  behavior  that  plead  for  him.  He  had  been  away 
from  Chicago  more  than  six  months,  in  Cuba  two,  and,  so 
far  as  he  had  been  able  to  discover,  his  wife  had,  during 
that  time,  received  but  three,  or  at  most  four,  letters  from 
him.  (Lucy  had  stood  them,  as  always,  in  good  stead.) 
Moreover,  a  far  more  salient  point,  Philip  had  now  been 
within  easiest  reach  for  over  three  weeks,  and  had  made 
no  attempt  to  get  to  Grangeford.  And  Philip's  anger  at 
the  old  quarrel  would  not  have  held  out,  Charles  very 
well  knew,  had  there  been  any  sufficient  reason  why  it 
should  cease. 

Van  Studdiford  went  home  that  night  and  tried  hard 
to  read  his  wife's  heart  through  her  face.  But  had  Vir- 
ginia been  aWare  of  the  test  she  was  undergoing,  she 
could  not  have  made  herself  more  impenetrable.  She  was 
now  living  on  resurrected  pride.  Throughout  that  hard- 
est of  summers,  she  had  been  obliged  to  draw  very  heavily 
upon  her  resources ;  and  thus  now,  when  it  seemed  that 
the  end  of  all  things  had  come,  when  Philip  had  actually 
deserted  her,  she  rose  above  her  great  desolation,  and 
presented,  to  her  narrow  world,  an  impalpable  face,  ex- 
pressionless eyes,  a  subdued  manner,  which,  however, 
betrayed  not  a  tenth  of  her  wretchedness.  Her  heart  was 
frozen.  After  the  first  week,  after  the  sending  of  the 
wild  letter,  she  had  not  felt  anything  keenly.    Her  nerves 

197 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


had  been  deadened  by  what  she  had  passed  through.  And 
her  husband,  observing  her  this  evening  as  he  had  never 
observed  her  before,  could  not  but  perceive  that  her  face 
bore  none  of  the  signs  he  expected.  No  sudden  Hght 
escaped  her  dull  eyes.  The  rigid  mask  was  never  acci- 
dentally raised.  The  mouth  found  nothing  in  the  secret 
thoughts  at  which  now  and  then  to  smile,  covertly.  By 
the  end  of  the  evening  Van  Studdiford  would  have  taken 
his  oath  that  Philip  and  his  wife  had  not  met  since  April. 

And  if  all  those  old,  wretched  suspicions  were  really 
wrong,  Charles  knew  that  he  had  treated  his  cousin  mon- 
strously. Philip's  work,  in  fact,  had  never  been  so  well 
done  as  at  the  time  when  he  was  discharged.  And  thus 
Van  Studdiford,  whose  family  feeling  toward  these  rela- 
tives of  his  was  strong,  spent  a  sleepless  night  and  rather 
a  long  Sunday.  In  the  end,  it  was  on  Sunday  night,  not 
Monday,  that  he  dispatched  the  promised  letter,  bidding 
Captain  Atkinson  come  to  see  him  on  Tuesday  morning. 

Accordingly,  at  that  time,  Philip  presented  himself, 
punctually,  at  the  familiar  office  of  the  familiar  factory. 
The  private  door  was  opened  to  him  at  once;  and  the 
ensuing  interview  was  short  and  satisfactory.  When 
Philip  emerged,  he  went  at  once  to  his  desk,  and,  in 
twenty  minutes,  was  hard  at  work. 

At  noon,  however,  Atkinson  sustained  a  shock  of 
surprise.  He  was  quite  as  astonished  as  his  companions, 
who  had  forgotten  everything  save  that  he  had  been  in 
the  war,  when  Charles  left  the  factory  at  his  usual  time, 
climbed  into  a  waiting  dog-cart,  and  drove  off  homeward 
without  a  word  to  his  cousin.     Philip  was  astonished; 

198 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


and  he  was  also  bitterly  chagrined.  All  the  morning 
he  had  counted  upon  seeing  her.  All  the  morning  he 
had  been  picturing  their  meeting,  wondering  just  how 
angry,  how  unapproachable,  she  would  be.  And  then,  in 
the  evening  again — he  was  brought  up  once  more,  swiftly. 
Would  Charles  expect  him  to  stay  at  the  house  that  night  ? 
It  was  difficult  to  say;  but,  judging  from  his  behavior  this 
noon,  he  would  not.  Could  it  be  possible  that  he  had  ac- 
cepted a  position  with  the  Van  Studdiford  Company,  at 
seventy-five  dollars  a  month,  for  the  sake  of  spending  the 
rest  of  his  days  in  a  factory  and  his  nights  in  a  third-rate 
hotel?  For  five  minutes  he  did  not  know  whether  to 
swear  or  to  laugh.  Then  temperament  triumphed.  He 
laughed — and  went  over  to  the  "  Gloucester  House  "  for 
luncheon. 

From  Tuesday  to  Saturday  Philip  lived  and  worked  in 
Grangeford  as  Charles  had  intended  he  should.  Acting  on 
an  inspiration,  suspecting,  when  he  had  had  time  for  med- 
itation, that  he  was  being  tried,  Philip  said  not  a  word  to 
anyone,  presented  to  his  cousin  a  pleasantly  impassive 
face,  made  no  attempt  to  communicate  with  Virginia,  and 
never  let  it  be  surmised  that,  after  one  more  week  of  such 
life,  should  there  be  no  results,  he  would  leave  the  factory 
and  the  town  for  the  last  time.  He  had  played  poker  long 
enough  and  well  enough  to  know  how  to  carry  a  bluff 
through  to  its  natural  end. 

By  Thursday  night  Charles  was  beginning  to  feel  his 
faith  in  his  cousin's  honesty  of  purpose  considerably 
strengthened.  For  three  days  he  had  watched  him,  closely. 
For  yet  another  day  he  let  the  matter  go.    Then,  on  Sat- 

199 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


urday,  he  gave  him  his  reward.  As  the  noon  whistle 
blew,  the  "  boss  "  appeared  at  Atkinson's  desk,  and  re- 
marked, pleasantly : 

"  Glad  if  you'll  come  up  and  lunch  with  us  to-day, 
Phil." 

In  spite  of  himself,  Philip  felt  that  a  suspicion  of  color 
was  creeping  up  his  face.  "  Thank  you,"  he  answered. 
"  I  accept,  with  pleasure.  You  put  up  rather  a  better 
table  than  the  *  Gloucester  House/  if  I  remember  cor- 
rectly." 

Charles  laughed,  and  the  two  left  the  factory  together : 
to  all  appearances,  as  amicably  as  of  old. 

The  drive  was  a  strange  one  to  Atkinson.  He  had  not 
really  been  prepared  for  the  invitation ;  and,  even  in  his 
eagerest  moments,  he  had  scarcely  realized  how  the  surety 
of  seeing  Virgfinia  would  affect  him.  The  town  drifted 
by,  a  glory  of  red  and  gold ;  for  there  was  a  wind  to-day, 
and  the  maples  were  recklessly  scattering  their  treasure  all 
abroad.  Everything  was  so  familiar,  so  intimately  con- 
nected with  keenest  memory!  The  sharp  freshness  of 
the  air  acted  on  his  brain  almost  like  alcohol.  The  clack 
of  Meteor's  hoofs,  the  rush  of  the  breeze,  the  sudden  bird- 
callings,  every  slightest  noise,  united  in  the  great  chorus 
that  was  crying  in  his  ears :    "  Virginia !  "  "  Virginia !  " 

And  then,  suddenly,  the  drive  was  over.  They  had 
halted  at  the  familiar  step.  The  g^oom  was  at  Meteor's 
head.    Charles  was  descending. 

That  morning  Virginia  had  lingered  late  in  bed.  It 
was  past  eleven  before  she  went  down  to  the  drawing- 

200 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


room  and  seated  herself,  according  to  old  custom,  at  the 
piano,  over  her  books  of  Chopin.  How  drearily  familiar 
they  were — ^all  those  exquisite  heart-melodies,  in  their 
fantastic,  minor  settings,  amid  the  suggestive  inweavings 
of  other  airs  that  echo  like  sad  memories  of  a  half-for- 
gotten past.  Virg^ia  could  play  by  heart  half  the  noc- 
turnes, all  the  etudes,  most  of  the  ballades.  There  was  but 
one  thing  that  she  now  never  touched — ^the  Berceuse. 
For  she  had  made  a  divinity  of  the  melancholy  Pole ;  and, 
since  her  baby  was  in  his  heaven,  she  would  not  mar  the 
exquisite  cradle-song  by  any  imperfect  rendering  that 
might  offend  the  ears  of  both  the  dead. 

Time  floated  imperceptibly  through  the  melodious 
room ;  and  Virginia,  entirely  imsuspecting  the  impending 
event,  heard  nothing  till  Charles'  voice  called  from  the 
hall,  outside : 

"  Virginia !    Are  you  upstairs  ? — Luncheon ! " 

She  broke  off,  in  the  middle  of  the  Andante  of  the 
Fantaisie-Impromptu,  and  went  into  the  dining-room 
through  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  parlor. 

"  I  am  here,  Charles,"  she  said,  quietly,  before  notic- 
ing that  Carson  was  hurriedly  laying  a  third  place,  or 
observing  his  expression.  Then,  as  she  was  seating  her- 
self, Philip  entered  from  the  hall,  and  his  eyes  met 
hers. 

Her  heart  gave  one,  wild  throb.  She  felt  the  blood 
leave  her  face,  and  then  surge  back  again.  But  she  sat 
perfectly  still,  thankful  that  she  was  not  on  her  feet  for 
him  to  see  how  she  trembled.  Utterly,  however,  as  she 
was  surprised,  the  misery  of  the  past  weeks  was  strong 

14  20I 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


upon  her.  In  another  minute  she  was  in  full  control  of 
herself,  and  was  saying,  quite  naturally,  quite  coldly: 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  Charles  had  not  told  me  to  expect 
a  guest,  or  the  table  would  have  been  ready." 

He  bowed  very  low,  but  did  not  speak.  He  had  pre- 
pared himself  for  this  manner ;  yet  now  that  she  used  it 
to  him — him,  who  had  never  felt  himself  more  her  lover 
than  at  this  moment — he  was  considerably  unnerved. 
There  was  no  more  time  even  for  a  look.  Charles  en- 
tered, swiftly,  nodded  to  his  wife,  and  sat  down,  as  Car- 
son served  the  bouillon. 

The  luncheon  that  followed,  however  trying,  was  suc- 
cessful from  three  points  of  view.  Whatever  Philip's 
state  of  mind,  whatever  the  wild  tumult  of  anger  and  de- 
light raging  in  Virginia's  brain,  Charles,  search  as  he 
would,  could  find  nothing  in  the  face,  voice  or  words  of 
either  that  betrayed  any  emotion.  Philip  was  in  his  most 
formally  talkative  mood.  Virginia  scarcely  spoke,  and 
never  once  turned  her  eyes  in  Philip's  direction.  Charles, 
considering  everything,  was  in  excellent  spirits,  and  had 
up  a  bottle  of  choice  Sauterne  in  which  to  drink  the  health 
of  Captain  Atkinson. 

In  half  an  hour  it  was  all  over.  The  men  were  putting 
on  their  light  overcoats  in  the  hall,  Virginia,  in  spite  of 
herself,  standing  nearby,  wondering,  hoping,  fearing, 
waiting  for  the  remark  which  presently  came  from 
Charles. 

"  Virginia,  we  can  put  Philip  up  over  Sunday,  can't 
we  ? — Expect  him,  then.  And,  by  the  way,  I'm  going  to 
drive  '  Lightning  '  in  the  sulky  to  Hilton  this  afternoon. 

202 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


Don't  hold  dinner  if  I  should  be  a  minute  late.  The  filly 
may  not  do  the  distance  quite  as  Meteor  can,  yet." 

A  look — a  quick,  involuntary  look  born  of  old,  inti- 
mate habit,  passed  between  Philip  and  Virginia.  Vir- 
ginia knew,  infinitely  well,  all  that  it  meant :  "  Charles 
away.  I  will  come  home  for  tea.  Confidences."  But  her 
own  glance  had  been  fleeting  and  had  promised  nothing. 
Philip,  following  Van  Studdiford  into  the  chilly  day, 
could  not  decide  within  himself  whether,  after  the  inter- 
vening hours  of  consideration,  she  would  yield  to  him 
or  not. 

Virginia  herself,  indeed,  knew  no  more  than  Philip 
what  she  should  do,  eventually.  Left  alone,  she  retreated 
to  her  room  in  a  state  of  mental  chaos.  Very  shortly 
Lucy  appeared,  even  more  eager  than  her  mistress  to  re- 
volve the  sudden  events  of  the  day.  But  while  Lucy,  with 
all  the  unsubtle  openness  of  the  under-bred,  was  frankly 
desirous  of  a  renewal  of  the  old  situation,  Virginia,  for  a 
long  time,  would  not  admit  that  such  a  thing  was  a  possi- 
bility. All  the  overpowering  bitterness  of  the  last  weeks 
rose  up  in  her  and  fought,  blindly,  against  those  forces 
newly  marshalled  on  Philip's  side :  "An  explanation — ade- 
quate excuse — his  convalescence — Charles'  anger  to  be 
successfully  overcome." — Knock!  Knock!  Knock!  Then, 
from  Lucy  also,  subtlest  suggestions.  "  Mr.  Philip  is 
back  at  work,  you  see.  Maybe  it  has  taken  all  this  time 
to  do  that.  Maybe  he  didn't  dare  to  write  for  fear  of 
spoiling  his  plan.  Mr.  Van  Studdiford  watched  very 
closely." 

By  the  time  four  o'clock  arrived,  Virginia  knew  just 
203 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


how  much  she  yearned  to  yield  to  these  temptations.  She 
wanted,  now,  to  believe  in  Philip.  All  her  past  with  him 
cried  out  for  surrender.  And  the  fact  that  he  was 
actually  here,  in  Charles'  employ,  a  thing  which  she  had 
not  believed  could  be  done  again, — what  stronger  proof 
of  real  fidelity  could  she  demand? 

It  was  Virginia's  custom,  at  this  hour,  to  bathe,  dress, 
and  have  tea  in  her  boudoir.  Mechanically  she  went 
through  the  first  two  processes,  hesitated  for  fifteen  min- 
utes over  the  third,  and  then  commanded  Lucy  to  serve 
the  tea  to  her  alone,  as  usual. 

While  she  sat  at  the  window  of  the  pretty  little  room, 
making  a  poor  pretense  at  drinking  from  an  imsteady 
cup  that  never  grew  emptier,  Philip  drove  up  to  the  house, 
his  suit-case  in  the  phaeton.  She  heard  the  bell,  the 
opening  and  shutting  of  the  doors,  and  then — silence. 
She  ceased,  now,  making  even  her  pretense,  and  sat  mo- 
tionless— listening,  listening,  for  some  sound:  for  the 
sound  of  his  steps  in  Lucy's  room.  Oh,  why,  after  six 
months  of  waiting,  must  she  still,  forever,  listen ! 

But  the  six  months  were  gone.  She  was  no  longer  to 
wait  in  vain.  Philip,  still  expert,  realized  that  the  situa- 
tion must  be  taken  in  hand  forcibly.  And,  with  his 
customary  surety,  always  correctly  judged,  he  did  exactly 
what  another  man  would  not  have  done.  Virginia,  un- 
consciously hoping  a  preposterous  thing,  found  her 
expectation  fulfilled.  As  she  listened,  that  which  she 
listened  for  became  audible.  There  were  soft  steps  in 
Lucy's  room.  The  boudoir  door  opened,  softly.  Philip 
entered. 

204 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Virginia  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  faced  him,  "  How 
dare  you !  "  she  said,  in  a  peculiarly  low,  angry  tone. 

He  answered  her  look,  tentatively,  till  she  had  come 
a  little  under  his  spell.  Then  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisp>er : 
"  After  all  these  months — how  dared  I  not  ?  " 

She  was  conquered.  After  all  her  suffering,  all  her 
wild  vows  of  unforgiveness,  at  the  first  look,  the  first 
word,  the  wretchedness  of  the  past  faded  away.  Even,- 
unhappy  feeling  was  lost  in  him:  in  his  lips,  that  spoke 
caresses ;  in  his  eyes,  that  shone  with  genuine  love,  a  gen- 
uine passion  for  her  whom  he  had  so  neglected.  She 
would  no  longer  try  to  understand  him.  She  would  only 
go  to  him  and,  in  his  arms,  find  Lethe. 

"  Whai  did  you  ccHne,  Philip ?  Only  this  morning?  " 
she  asked,  ten  minutes  later. 

"  I  have  been  living  for  a  week  at  the  hotd. — I  didn't 
dare  send  you  word.    Charles  doesn't  trust  me  much." 

"  Oh !— Charles  doesn't  trust  us  at  all !— Look !  " 

"By  Jove!" 

Up  the  road,  drawn  by  his  well-named  colt,  came 
Charles,  in  the  sulky. 

"  He  left  the  factory  when  I  did,"  observed  Philip, 
softly. 

"  He's  turning  into  the  yard.  Go,  Philip ! — quick  1 — 
through  Lucy's  room  down  to  the  Ubnry — somewhere !  " 

He  lingered  only  for  an  instant.  "  Later?  "  he  asked, 
softly. 

"  If — ^if  it  is  possible. — Oh,  yes, — if  we  can. — Bat,  oh  I 
wc  must  be  careful !  " 

He  flashed  a  smile  at  her,  kissed  her  hand,  was  gone. 
«>5 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Virginia  sank  back  upon  her  little  sofa,  pressed  both 
hands  to  her  temples,  and  tried  to  think.  But  thinking 
was  useless.  She  might  ask  herself,  over  and  over  again, 
what  she  had  done.  The  answer  that  leaped  into  her  heart 
was  always  an  answer  of  joy :  of  ecstatic  joy.  And,  when, 
presently,  Lucy  entered,  terrified,  to  warn  her  reckless 
twain,  she  found  there  only  one  of  them,  alone  on  the 
couch,  hysterically  weeping  away  all  the  accumulated  dis- 
trust and  unhappiness  of  the  last,  loneliest  days. 

Meantime  Philip,  unseen  by  anyone,  had  gained  the 
smoking-room.  He  had  thrown  himself  on  the  well-worn 
couch,  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  picked  up  a  book,  which, 
however,  he  made  no  pretense  at  reading.  He  was  in  a 
state  of  exhilaration  untempered,  as  yet,  by  any  reflection 
concerning  Charles'  behavior.  He  had,  however,  taken 
scarcely  ten  puffs  at  his  Egyptian  when  he  heard  the  side 
door  open,  and  someone  enter  the  hall.  Evidently  Van 
Studdiford  had  taken  Lightning  round  to  the  stables 
himself.  That,  Atkinson  reflected,  had  been  a  fatal  mis- 
take— if  he  had  thought  to  make  any  discoveries.  As  it 
happened,  no  groom  had  been  at  hand,  and  the  thing  had 
been  a  necessity.  Atkinson  heard  his  cousin  puttering 
about  the  hall  removing  his  things,  and  he  called  out: 

"That  you,  Charles?" 

Instantly  Charles  appeared  on  the  smoking-room 
threshold,  the  expression  on  his  face  betraying  unques- 
tionable relief. 

"  When  d'you  get  home  ?  "  he  inquired. 

Philip  rose,  lazily.  He  was  a  little  disconcerted,  for 
all  at  once  he  felt  himself  extremely  caddish.     "  Ten  or 

206 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


fifteen  minutes  ago,"  he  answered.  "You  cut  your  drive 
short,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Had  to.  Idiots  put  an  old  harness  and  reins  on 
Lightning,  and  I  didn't  dare  let  her  out.  The  lines  are 
fairly  rotten,  in  places. — Where's  Virginia  ?  " 

The  proper  answer  rose  to  Philip's  lips,  but  he  balked 
at  the  direct  lie.  "  Upstairs,  I  imagine. — Really,  I  don't 
know,"  said  he. 

Charles  looked  at  him,  closely,  reddened  a  little  at  the 
apparent  folly  of  his  suspicions,  and  was  satisfied. 

Very  soon  afterwards  Virginia  came  down,  in  dinner 
dress;  and,  thereafter,  the  hours  passed  by  in  the  old, 
accustomed  way.  Charles,  however,  did  not  now  retire 
to  the  library  immediately  after  dinner;  but  sat  about, 
uncomfortably,  longing  to  get  to  his  work,  yet  still  too 
much  tortured  by  half -repudiated  doubts  to  efface  himself 
comfortably,  as  of  old.  There  had  been  nothing,  abso- 
lutely nothing,  to  suspect.  He  had  spoiled  his  afternoon, 
shortened  his  drive,  to  no  purpose.  He  had  kept  Philip 
at  the  "  Gloucester  House  "  for  five  days.  He  was  mak- 
ing himself  miserable  now,  because  Virginia,  in  plain 
sight,  was  at  the  piano,  and  Philip  stood  nearby,  watching 
her,  speaking,  now  and  then,  words  rendered  inaudible  by 
the  music.  Surely,  surely,  if  his  doubts  were  justified, 
they  would  not,  could  not,  behave  as  naturally  as  this 
before  him? — How  regal  Virginia  had  grown,  of  late! 
In  the  recent  months  that  they  had  spent  together,  Charles 
had  never  noticed  her  as  he  noticed  her  to-night;  never 
admired  her  as  he  admired  her  now. — And,  alas!  long 
as  Charles  had  known  Philip's  incapabilities  in  business, 

207 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


he  had  never  for  a  moment  suspected  his  positive  genius 
in  his  real  profession,  that  which  he  was  practicing  now. 
And,  as  he  made  his  slow  deductions,  he  could  not  have 
realized  that  each  calculation  must  be  wrong  because  he 
was  an  hundred-fold  underrating  the  abilities  of  the  man 
against  whom  his  wits  were  pitted. 

Philip,  from  his  vantage-point  at  the  end  of  the  room, 
studied  not  only  Virginia  but  his  cousin  as  well ;  and  few 
of  Charles'  thoughts  went  unread  by  him.  After  a  fashion 
invented  long  ago,  he  talked  to  Virginia  under  the  safe 
cover  of  her  music. 

"  Charles  is  watching  us  very  closely,"  he  observed, 
in  the  first  measures  of  the  Third  Ballade. 

"Why?" 

"  He  is  still  very  doubtful  of  us  both. — I  don't  know — 
that  to-night — would  be  at  all  safe." 

Now  it  is  very  nearly  impossible  to  play  anything  as 
difficult  as  that  Ballade  and  talk  at  the  same  time.  Vir- 
ginia hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  uttered  the  one 
word :  "  Please !  " 

No  eloquence  could  have  suggested  a  more  effective 
appeal.  He  smiled,  slightly,  into  her  eyes.  Then,  looking 
toward  Van  Studdiford,  said,  very  softly :  "  It  will  have 
to  be  late,  then. — Perhaps  about  three. — He  must  sleep 
sometime." 

She  could  make  no  reply  in  words.  Her  face  answered 
for  her.  Then,  while  her  fingers  rushed  on  to  the  climax 
of  the  piece,  he  strolled  nonchalantly  away  toward  his 
cousin,  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette,  and  seated  himself  near 
Van  Studdiford  with  a  question  concerning  the  present 

208 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


price  of  pig-iron.    And  this  Charles  answered  with  alac- 
rity, as  being  something  that  he  fully  understood. 

Thus,  in  simplest  fashion,  after  half-a-dozen  words 
on  either  side,  the  old  situation  was  renewed ;  and  happi- 
ness, the  bitter,  mistaken,  half -happiness  of  ignorant,  un- 
protected youth,  returned  for  a  brief  season  to  Virginia. 
It  meant  much,  ah,  so  much,  to  her,  to  know  Atkinson 
still  her  own.  Yet  there  were  details  in  the  present 
situation  that  differed  from  the  old.  Careful  as  they 
were,  lucky  as  they  were,  there  was  something  in  the  at- 
mosphere that  surrounded  these  two  which  bred  vague 
shadows  of  doubt  and  suspicion  in  Van  Studdiford. 
He  watched,  pondered,  reasoned  with  himself.  He  saw 
nothing,  he  heard  nothing ;  yet  he  constantly  set  aside  the 
evidence  of  his  senses.  It  was  impossible  not  to  see  that 
Atkinson  was  working  well:  that  he  was  doing  all  that 
could  be  demanded  of  him ;  even  a  little  more.  And  yet — 
there  was  something  unnatural  in  that.  When,  on  the 
eleventh  day  of  November,  the  first  volunteers  were 
honorably  discharged  from  service,  Charles  was  sur- 
prised at  his  own  chagrin.  It  was  preposterous  that  he 
could  still  have  hoped  something  from  that  dead  war; 
yet  his  secret  disappointment  told  him  that  he  had. 

Nor,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  could  not  have  asked 
for  more  than  was  granted  him,  was  Philip  thoroughly 
happy.  He  was  discovering  that,  despite  his  familiarity 
with  her,  Passion  had  many  moods  till  now  ung^essed 
by  him.  The  reason  for  this  was  obvious.  Until  he  knew 
Virginia,  he  had  never  loved.     And,  however  he  had 

209 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


begun  with  her,  love  her  now  he  did,  to  all  the  depth  and 
breadth  and  height  of  his  not  too  large  soul.  A  thousand 
times,  through  November,  he  wondered  what  evil  spirit 
had  kept  him  from  her  for  so  many  weeks  after  his  re- 
turn. His  vanity  was  forgotten.  His  selfishness  was 
nearly  discarded.  Twenty  times  a  day  he  was  irked  and 
angered  by  the  thought  of  his  old  self.  And  while,  in 
any  other  case,  another  man's  jealousy  would  unques- 
tionably have  added  zest  to  his  game,  he  was  now  dis- 
gusted with  himself  because  of  the  discretion  he  was 
obliged  to  use,  the  dishonor  of  his  risks,  and,  worst  of  all, 
the  possibility  that  Virginia,  still  tranquilly  blind,  would 
begin  to  see  their  position  in  its  truly  shocking  light. 

Philip  wanted  Virginia  for  himself.  He  longed,  sin- 
cerely, for  the  right  to  hold  her  and  protect  her  honestly. 
Many  times  he  told  her  this,  with  husky  voice  and  un- 
chosen  words.  Many  times  they  discussed  the  possibility 
of  an  elopement.  But  their  situation  was  such  as  to  make 
that  idea  the  merest  chimera,  Virginia  had  not  one 
penny  of  her  own.  Atkinson  was  entirely  dependent  on 
Charles  for  a  salary  out  of  which  he  had  never  managed 
to  save  anything.  Everywhere  Charles!  In  everything 
his  hand !  Without  money  they  certainly  could  not  live. 
And  fortunes,  in  America,  are  not  now  to  be  made  in 
a  day.  Nor  was  Virginia  of  the  women  who  can  stand  the 
stress  of  labor  and  constant  economy.  Thus,  after  each 
futile  threshing  of  the  worn  subject,  they  laid  it  aside, 
sighing,  and  turned  to  each  other's  arms  for  a  comfort 
sorely  needed. 

The  existing  situation  was,  however,  only  a  temporary 

2IO 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


thing,  so  mutable  that  changes  were  visible  in  it  from 
day  to  day.  Every  hour,  almost,  brought  some  new  dis- 
comfort home  to  the  three  members  of  the  isolated  house- 
hold. There  was,  indeed,  no  one  thing  more  of  a  detri- 
ment to  harmonious  existence  than  this  very  isolation. 
Long  before,  during  the  previous  winter,  indeed,  Virginia, 
rather  than  face  coldness,  comment,  or  prying  curiosity, 
had  entirely  withdrawn  herself  from  Grangeford  society. 
At  the  time,  this  had  passed  unobserved  by  Charles.  He 
had  all  the  American  man's  scornful  disregard  of  social 
relationships.  But  by  now  he  had  come  to  feel  that  there 
must  be  something  wrong  with  a  wife  who  never  had  any 
engagements,  upon  whom  women  never  called,  who  had 
not  even  seen  her  closest  girlhood  friend  in  more  than 
half  a  year.  By  these  facts,  and  many  others  less  marked, 
Charles'  suspicions  were  fed;  and  his  mental  uneasiness 
increased  till  he  suddenly  determined  the  thing  to  be  un- 
endurable, and  decided  to  take  a  questionable  step.  If 
Atkinson  was  desirous  simply  of  working  in  his  employ, 
for  his  interests,  he  could  not  care  where  he  worked.  An 
interview,  at  any  rate,  would  probably  decide  Philip's 
attitude ;  and  the  interview  he  determined  to  have. 

Thus  it  happened  that,  on  the  morning  of  the  first 
Sunday  in  December,  soon  after  breakfast,  Charles  and 
Philip  shut  themselves  up  together  in  the  library.  When, 
one  hour  later,  Atkinson  emerged,  his  face  was  rather 
whiter  than  usual,  and  his  lips  were  closely  compressed. 
He  went  hurriedly  to  his  own  room  and  remained  there 
till  dinner  was  announced.  During  their  talk,  he  had 
succeeded,  admirably,  in  hiding  his  mind  from  his  cousin. 

211 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


He  had  very  nearly  satisfied  Charles  of  his  sincerity.  It 
mattered  nothing,  now.  Wretched  as  he  was,  he  thought 
most  of  another  who  would  be  made  more  wretched  still. 
There  was  a  task  before  him  that  he  dreaded  unspeak- 
ably. He  must  tell  Virginia  the  result  of  the  interview ; 
but,  until  the  hour  for  the  revelation  came,  she  should 
guess  nothing  from  his  manner.  He  must  tell  her  soon : 
there  was  pitiably  little  time  left  for  the  deed.  Yet 
he  determined  to  wait  until  night  should  bring  them  a 
sure  solitude. 

Philip's  plan,  unselfish  though  it  was,  was  not  wholly 
successful.  Sometimes  the  eyes  of  love  are  keener  than 
the  eyes  of  suspicion.  Through  all  Philip's  debonair  gay- 
ety,  and  the  clever  nonsense  with  which  he  entertained 
Charles  at  dinner,  Virginia  caught  more  than  one  glimpse 
of  pain  beneath  the  manner.  But  how  sharp  that  pain 
was,  only  Philip  himself,  writhing  under  it,  could  un- 
derstand. 

It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  and  the  lights  were  up 
before  the  two  came  together,  alone,  in  the  smoking-room. 
Then  Virginia,  who  had  spent  the  whole  afternoon  in  a 
dreary  agony,  began,  abruptly : 

"  What  is  it,  Philip?    What  is  the  matter  with  you?  " 
He  smiled,  gayly.    '"  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?  " 
"  Because,"  she  moved  a  little  nearer  to  him,  and  low- 
ered her  voice  to  a  whisper,  "  because  what  troubles  you 
must  trouble  me  also,  must  it  not  ?  " 

He  hesitated  for  an  instant,  and  then,  suddenly,  all 
the  pretense  dropped  off  him,  and  he  murmured,  with 
lowered  head :     "  Yes,  God  forgive  me !  " 

212 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"Philip!" 

"  Don't  ask  me  any  more  yet  Wait,  darling,  wait,  I 
beg  of  you,  till  we  are  safely  alone.  You  know  that — 
nothing  is  safe  here,  now." 

Without  any  further  word,  she  left  the  room  and  went 
upstairs.  It  needed  no  explanation  to  apprise  her  of 
Philip's  news.  With  that  divining  dread  that  she  carried 
constantly  in  her  heart,  she  had  perceived,  in  four  of 
Philip's  words,  all  that  he  had  to  tell.  And  yet  she  re- 
jected the  conviction,  strove  to  put  it  from  her  till  she 
must  face  it,  squarely.  For  though,  thrice  before,  she  had 
borne  that  which  threatened  now,  she  had  been  woefully 
weakened  both  in  pride  and  in  endurance;  and  in  her 
heart  she  knew  that  her  darkest  hour  was  at  hand. 

That  night,  at  half  past  eleven,  only  half  an  hour 
after  the  light  had  been  turned  out  in  Charles'  room, 
Lucy  crept  softly  to  Virginia,  with  a  cup  of  hot  broth  in 
one  hand,  a  little  night-lamp  in  the  other.  Virginia  lay 
upon  her  bed,  clad  in  a  long,  lace  negligee,  her  feet  cov- 
ered with  white  silk  stockings  and  Turkish  slippers,  her 
hair  dressed  as  for  the  day.  She  made  some  effort  to 
drink  the  bouillon,  for  she  had  eaten  nothing  since  noon. 
But  the  cup,  nearly  full,  was  finally  set  down  at  her  side, 
while  her  brown  eyes  followed  Lucy,  who  was  moving 
softly  about  the  room,  putting  everything  in  order. 

Virginia's  face  was  colorless,  but  her  eyes  glowed  as 
if  with  fever.  She  was  heart-sick  with  dread;  and  yet 
she  longed,  almost,  for  the  removal  of  what  uncertainty 
there  might  be.  She  had  not  to  wait  long.  On  the  stroke 
of  midnight,  just  as  Lucy  left  her,  Atkinson,  fully  dressed 

213 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


save  for  his  shoes,  came  in,  the  faint  light  of  the  lamp 
casting  before  him  the  long,  wavering  shadow  of  his 
slender  body.  He  went  at  once  to  where  Virginia  lay. 
She,  however,  rose,  suddenly,  and  they  stood  face  to  face, 
staring  hungrily,  miserably,  into  each  other's  eyes.  There 
was  little  need  for  words  between  them ;  yet  Virginia  was 
driven,  by  a  last  remnant  of  hope,  to  voice  her  fear. 

"  You  have  not  got  to  go  again  ?  "  she  asked. 

Visibly,  Philip  repressed  a  groan.  "  Sacramento,  "  he 
said.    "  All  winter,  I  suppose." 

Slowly,  with  the  greatest  difficulty,  Virginia  made  her 
way  to  the  morris  chair  and  sank  down  in  it.  There, 
withdrawn  from  the  range  even  of  the  wavering  lamp, 
her  delicacy  of  face  and  form  were  exaggerated  till  one 
would  have  thought  her  almost  in  a  state  of  emaciation. 
But  now,  as  she  looked  up,  Philip  saw  two  spots  of  scarlet 
flaming  in  her  cheeks,  saw  the  glitter  of  her  eyes,  the  ex- 
treme whiteness  of  all  the  rest  of  her  skin,  and  was 
startled  at  the  effect.  He  was  still  staring  at  her,  un- 
comfortably, when  she  spoke,  in  a  low,  unemotional  voice : 

"  Philip,  I  cannot  bear  this.  He  is  asking  too  much 
now.  He  is  driving  me  to —  Don't  you  see,  don't  you 
know,  Philip,  that  I  can't  bear  any  more  of  this  soli- 
tude, this  frightful  loneliness  ?  " 

Falling  on  his  knees  before  her  chair,  he  took  her  two 
slender  hands  into  one  of  his,  laying  the  other  against 
her  burning  cheek.  "  My  darling," — his  heart,  his  tears, 
were  in  that  low  voice — "  what  shall  I  do  ?  What  can  I 
do  ?  God  in  heaven,  Virginia,  what  a  hideous  cad  I  have 
been — and  am  !  " 

214 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


Withdrawing  her  hands  from  his  clasp,  she  laid  one 
softly  upon  his  mouth,  and  with  the  other  she  stroked 
the  short,  curling  locks  that  now  covered  his  head  more 
irrepressibly  than  of  old.  And,  through  this  little  act  of 
tenderness,  all  at  once  tears  began  to  fall  from  her  eyes : 
hot  tears,  that  had  no  balm  in  them. 

"  Philip,  isn't  it  possible — in  any  way — for  us  to  go 
away  together? — CarCt  we? — Couldn't  we  really? — I 
should  ask  so  little  1 " 

He  spoke  no  word ;  but  his  head  drooped  till  it  touched 
her  knee.  What  other  answer  did  she  need?  So  they 
were  very  still,  for  five,  for  ten,  long  minutes,  till,  sud- 
denly, Virginia,  pushing  him  gently  away  from  her, 
sprang  up,  and  began  to  pace  rapidly  up  and  down  the 
room,  her  restless  fingers  at  work  upon  her  handkerchief, 
she  herself  talking  softly,  wildly : 

"  Then — then  I  must  go  to  him  and  tell  him  how  I 
hate — how  I  loathe  him!  I  must  go  myself.  When  I 
have  told  him  everything,  he  cannot  try  to  keep  me  here. 
Perhaps  he  might  give  me  a  little  money,  a  few  dollars 
a  month,  enough  to  live  on,  somewhere,  in  one  room.  But 
I  cannot  bear  being  alone  again  here.  I  cannot !  I  should 
die — or  go  mad.  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  it  is!  You 
can't  guess.  You  can't  dream ! — I  tell  you,  I  shall  surely 
lose  my  mind  if  I  have  to  bear  it  even  for  a  week  more. 
I  shall  kill  myself  rather  than  that !  I  shall  shoot  myself, 
or  take  arsenic,  or " 

By  degrees  her  voice  had  been  rising;  for  she  was 
past  any  fear  of  discovery.  Indeed,  at  that  moment,  had 
Charles  appeared  upon  the  threshold  of  her  door,  it  would 

2IS 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


have  seemed  to  her  a  positive  relief,  for  it  would  have 
meant  that  here  and  now,  at  last,  something  would  be 
decided,  the  question  in  some  way  settled.  But  Philip, 
at  any  rate,  was  in  no  state  of  hysteria.  He  exerted  all 
the  power  of  his  will  to  soothe  her;  and,  after  a  long 
time,  she  began  to  cry,  naturally,  as  a  little  child  cries 
after  a  great  fright,  when  its  Mother  has  at  last  reached 
and  begun  to  soothe  it.  Philip  was  quite  as  tender  with 
her  as  a  woman  could  have  been ;  and,  to  all  her  tears 
and  kisses  and  little,  reminiscent  sobs,  he  replied  with 
gentlest  caressings.  She  spoke  only  on  one  subject,  but 
this  over  and  over  again,  as  if  she  must  persuade  herself 
of  the  necessity  of  such  a  course. 

"  Since  you  want  it,  Philip,  I  will  try.  Yes,  I  will  try 
to  bear  it  for  a  while.  But,  if  it  is  too  hard,  if  I  cannot 
endure  it,  I  must  send  for  you.  And  if  I  send,  you  will 
know ;  and  you  will  come,  won't  you,  Philip  ?    You  will 


come 


"  Yes,  my  darling,  I  will  come." 

"  I  will  stay  here,  behind,  and  try.  But  oh !  If  I 
telegraph,  you  will  not  fail  to  come.  You  will  not  fail 
me,  Philip?" 

"Beloved,  no!" 

"  Promise  me ! " 

"  I  swear  it,  Virginia." 

Thus,  by  slow  degrees,  after  the  greatest  patience  on 
Philip's  part,  and  many  returns  to  despair  on  hers,  the 
anodyne  of  love  began  to  act.  Sleep,  which  sometimes 
comes,  in  spite  of  us,  at  the  most  sleepless  times,  over- 
powered her.     And  her  lover,  loving  her  never  so  pas- 

216 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


sionately,  regretting  her  never  so  powerfully,  needing 
her  never  so  cruelly  as  now,  left  her  to  her  merciful 
unconsciousness,  and,  with  a  rebellion  in  his  heart  the 
bitterness  of  which  was  scarcely  endurable,  ascended  to 
a  sleepless,  perhaps  penitential,  bed. 


15  217 


CHAPTER   XIII 

It  was  now  nearly  three  years  since  the  Merrill  house 
on  Michigan  Avenue  had  first  been  rented  to  the  Kansas 
City  parvenues  who  still  occupied  it.  Of  those  three 
years  John  Merrill  (now,  alas!  a  man  in  name  only) 
and  his  devoted  wife  had  spent  scarcely  more  than  three 
months  in  Chicago.  In  the  latter  part  of  November,  how- 
ever, in  this  year  of  '98,  the  sick  man,  through  the  last 
remnant  of  his  personality,  and  the  woman,  with  all  the 
passionate  force  of  her  intense  nature,  were  overcome  at 
the  same  moment  by  an  overpowering  desire  for  "  home  " ; 
the  home  that  dirty  Chicago  always  seems  to  every  one 
of  her  children.  Thus  it  happened  that,  in  the  first  week 
of  December,  there  appeared,  in  the  society  columns  of 
the  various  papers,  an  announcement  to  the  eflfect  that 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Merrill  had  returned  from  a  pro- 
tracted tour,  and  had  taken  a  suite  of  rooms  at  the  Hotel 
Metropole  for  the  season. 

One  thing  more  was  necessary  to  complete  Mrs.  Mer- 
rill's little  period  of  happiness;  and  this  she  promptly 
secured.  Two  or  three  letters  passed  between  Chicago 
and  Grangeford ;  and  finally,  on  Thursday,  the  fourteenth 
day  of  the  holiday  month,  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford,  attended 
by  her  maid,  joined  her  Mother  at  the  hotel.     She  had 

218 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Charles'  permission  to  stay  for  a  week.  In  her  own  heart 
she  had  no  intention  of  going  back  while  her  Mother  re- 
mained in  the  city,  though  she  should  have  to  sell  her 
pearls  to  pay  for  the  necessities  of  her  life. 

For  the  first  three  days  just  the  delight  of  being 
together  and  the  manifest  improvement  in  the  invalid 
brought  about  by  the  mere  sight  of  Virginia,  sufficed 
for  happiness,  and  obscured  every  other  sensation  on 
the  part  of  Mother  and  Daughter.  Then,  gradually 
and  subtly,  there  came  a  change.  It  seemed  to  Virginia 
as  if  she  were  being  constantly  searched  by  her  Mother's 
eyes;  and  Mrs.  Merrill  had  the  sense  that  Virginia  no 
longer  met  her  glance:  that  her  child's  face  was  turned 
from  her,  always. 

Moreover,  Virginia  was  not  looking  well.  She  was 
very  thin,  whiter  than  of  old,  and  there  was,  in  her 
face,  the  drawn  look  that  belongs  rather  to  forty  than  to 
twenty-one.  Mrs.  Merrill  was  tenderly  solicitous  about 
Virginia's  health:  hoped,  at  first,  in  her  secret  heart, 
that  there  might  be  joyous  cause  for  it;  but  was  soon 
disillusioned  of  that.  She  asked  a  few  questions  about 
Charles,  who  seemed  to  entertain  no  idea  of  coming  to  see 
his  wife  while  she  was  in  Chicago,  and  found  her  ques- 
tions always  promptly  answered,  but  never,  apparently, 
enlarged  upon.  She  gained  no  information  about  the 
habitual  life  of  the  couple  at  home  or  abroad.  Yes — 
Marion  Hunt  was  well — Virginia  believed.  They  had 
not  met  very  recently.  No.  She  had  given  no  dinners 
this  season.  Grangeford  clung  to  the  traditional  supper ; 
and — nobody  in  Grangeford  talked  well  enough  to  make 

219 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


a  dinner  desirable.  Yes,  all  the  good  people  whom 
her  Mother  had  met  were  still  there.  There  had  been  no 
deaths  and  no  marriages.  There  had  not  even  been  many 
parties,  this  year;  and  to  the  few  that  had  been  given, 
Virginia  had  not  cared  to  go.  Nor  did  she  drive  very 
often  with  Charles. — Well,  for  the  reason  that  trotters 
must  always  be  taken  out  in  a  sulky;  and  a  sulky  was 
scarcely  built  for  two  people,  especially  if  one  of  them 
was  a  woman.  Then,  lastly, — Mr.  Atkinson  was  not  in 
Grangeford.  He  was,  she  believed,  in  the  West,  in  Sac- 
ramento, at  the  branch  house  there. 

Virginia  had  grown  desperately  uncomfortable  by  the 
time  this  point  was  reached.  She  answered  the  last  ques- 
tion bravely,  and  yet  there  was  something  special  in  the 
reply:  something  so  much  more  subtly  avertive  than  in 
the  rest  of  her  answers  that  it  sent  Mrs.  Merrill's  heart 
plunging  downward.  By  day  the  Mother's  eyes  followed 
her  daughter,  wondering,  hoping,  despairing;  and  by 
night  they  stared  into  the  darkness,  asking  a  question  of 
the  infinite :  a  question  which,  at  its  proper  time,  had  gone 
unasked.  And  it  concerned  the  wisdom  of  mercenary 
marriages. 

When  one  week  of  this  unhappy  fencing  had  passed, 
Mrs.  Merrill,  deciding  it  to  be  worse  than  useless,  man- 
aged, by  her  tact  and  self-possession,  to  put  a  stop  to  it. 
Charles  was  now  counting  upon  his  wife's  return  to 
Grangeford;  but  he  waited  in  vain  for  a  message  des- 
ignating the  day  of  her  arrival.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Mrs.  Merrill  was  not  aware  that  Virginia  had  been 
given  so  short  a  leave  of  absence,  and  she  and  her  daugh- 

220 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


ter  were  just  beginning  to  yield  themselves  up  to  a  host  of 
people  who  had  discovered  the  Merrills'  presence  in  the 
city,  and  were  welcoming  an  old  and  valued  member  of 
their  exclusive  set  with  outstretched  arms,  delighted  anew 
when  they  discovered  their  opportunity  of  also  making 
the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford,  "the  young 
wife  of  the  millionaire." 

Chicago  was  now  at  its  gayest,  and  even  Lucy  Markle 
was  rejoicing  in  the  opportunity  of  at  last  displaying  her 
true  merit.  Through  her  skill,  Virginia,  thin  and  pale 
though  she  was,  found  herself  creating  a  little  situation 
in  that  cream  of  society  to  which  her  Mother  was  so 
happy  to  introduce  her.  And  here  Mrs.  Merrill  found 
a  satisfaction  that  recompensed  her  for  much  anxiety. 
Among  these  critical  people  whom  she  had  never  known, 
Virginia  bore  herself  admirably.  She  was  as  oblivious 
of  the  masculine  admiration  she  excited  as  she  was  im- 
pervious to  flattery  and  that  species  of  rank  toadyism  that 
always  flourishes  upon  the  edge  of  society,  and  hangs 
especially  upon  the  reputedly  wealthy.  It  was  evident 
from  the  first  that  young  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  was  eligi- 
ble to  admittance  to  the  very  holy  of  holies ;  for  she  could 
be  trusted  never  to  carry  with  her  any  of  those  undesira- 
ble connections  so  frequently  tolerated  simply  through 
personal  vanity. 

Nevertheless,  during  the  short  time  that  she  was  in 
the  city,  Virginia  did,  deliberately,  make  and  cultivate  one 
friendship  which  her  Mother  regarded  in  silence,  but  on 
which  less  careful  persons  did  not  hesitate  to  comment 
unfavorably.    For,  though  the  object  of  that  friendship 

221 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


had,  up  to  within  a  year  or  two,  been  the  very  much 
petted  darHng  of  enviable  people,  she  had,  of  recent 
months,  through  some  malice,  envy,  or  dislike,  been  set 
completely  aside  by  her  former  intimates,  who  now  looked 
her  coldly  in  the  face,  and  forgot  to  bow. 

Georgiana  Dupre  cared  extremely  little  for  the 
slights  of  people  who  had  long  since  ceased  to  interest 
her.  Had  she  wished  to  exert  herself  in  the  least,  she 
could  probably  have  brought  round  her  any  circle  she 
chose.  For  her  fascination,  felt  by  men  and  women  alike, 
was  almost  irresistible.  During  the  first  week  of  Vir- 
ginia's stay  at  the  Metropole  Mme.  Dupre  called  upon 
her,  and  an  old  attraction  that  had  sprung  up  between 
them  at  the  time  of  the  luncheon  at  Grangeford,  was 
renewed.  From  that  day  Georgiana,  who  had  strongly 
desired  to  know  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  on  Philip's  account, 
determined  to  cultivate  her  assiduously  on  her  own.  The 
romantic  curiosity  roused  in  her  by  the  infatuation  of  her 
fastidious  brother,  speedily  developed  into  a  strong,  per- 
sonal admiration,  and  a  half-sorrowful  affection  for  the 
quiet,  white-faced  young  creature  whom  she  remembered 
as  promising  so  radiant  a  womanhood. 

From  the  first,  Mme.  Dupre  had  desired  Virginia's 
confidence.  But,  after  three  long  afternoons  together, 
she  decided  that  her  wish  was  hopeless.  Extreme 
reticence,  fostered  by  long  and  dangerous  solitudes,  had 
become  Virginia's  most  marked  outward  characteristic. 
No  one,  formally  considering  her,  could  have  dreamed 
how  close  to  the  surface  volcanic  fires  lay.  Yet  it  fell  to 
Georgiana  to  discover  this,  with  unlooked-for  suddenness. 

222 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Wednesday,  the  seventeenth  of  December,  was  a  typical 
Chicago  winter's  day.  Over  the  sleet-swept  city  hung  a 
pall  of  smoky  clouds.  The  wind  was  directly  off  the 
Lake:  one  of  those  biting  winds,  never  found  in  dryer 
climates.  The  streets,  which  would  be  lighted  by  four  in 
the  afternoon,  echoed  to  the  clack-clack-clack  of  horses' 
hoofs,  and  the  roll  of  carriages ;  for  the  season  was  at  its 
height.  Virginia  had  had  rather  a  lonely  morning,  and 
had  just  finished  a  solitary  luncheon.  Her  Mother  was 
playing  Bridge ;  her  Father,  it  being  one  of  his  bad  days, 
was  asleep,  and  invisible  to  anyone  but  his  nurse ;  and  she 
was  considering,  drearily  enough,  the  possibility  of  a 
matinee,  when  a  messenger  arrived  with  a  note.  Mme. 
Dupre,  confined  to  her  apartment  by  a  cold,  requested 
Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  to  come  over  to  tea  with  her, 
informally,  at  four.  Virginia,  heartily  thankful,  sent 
back  a  cordial  acceptance,  and  called  Lucy  to  come  and 
dress  her. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Georgiana  was  suffering  less  from 
her  slight  cold  than  from  a  very  bad  attack  of  ennui, 
which  the  prospect  of  some  sort  of  scene  with  Virginia 
lessened.  She  was  in  her  most  unconventional  mood 
when  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  was  announced;  and,  under 
the  influence  of  a  cordiality  which  had  in  it  a  touch  of 
intimacy,  Virginia  removed  the  greater  part  of  her  re- 
serve with  her  cloak  and  furs. 

They  seated  themselves,  immediately,  before  the  tea- 
table,  where  a  fire  was  burning  under  the  little  plated  ket- 
tle, and  the  sandwiches  and  cakes  already  placed.  Vir- 
ginia, in  the  most  comfortable  of  arm-chairs,  relaxed,  with 

223 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


a  deep  sigh,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  humor  of  her 
hostess,  whose  living-room  bore  the  stamp  of  fine  taste 
and  a  marked  personality.  It  was  a  singularly  comfort- 
able room  for  a  hotel  apartment.  The  dead  day  had  been 
carefully  shut  out,  and  all  the  light  came  from  three  fan- 
tastic lamps  and  a  blazing  gas-log.  Big,  masculine  chairs 
stood  everywhere,  and  beside  them  were  innumerable  little 
tables  and  nests  of  tables,  strewn  with  a  hundred  fem- 
inine extravagances.  The  olive  walls,  nearly  hidden 
under  a  vast  collection  of  pictures  and  photographs, 
would,  to  a  thinker,  have  provided  a  pretty  accurate  his- 
tory of  their  owner's  life  and  characteristics ;  and,  whether 
these  were  good  or  bad,  they  were,  unquestionably,  amaz- 
ingly interesting.  Finally,  on  the  mantel-piece,  were  three 
photographs,  one  very  large,  of  Philip ;  and  it  was  under 
the  spell  of  these,  and  the  presence  they  brought  home 
to  her,  that  Virginia  talked  when  she  was  in  this  room. 

Mme.  Dupre  was  busy  with  the  hot  water  and  the  tea 
canister,  tactfully  leaving  it  to  her  guest  to  introduce  the 
subject  of  conversation.  For  some  minutes,  however, 
Virginia  kept  a  comfortable  silence,  while  she  allowed 
the  fascinating  atmosphere  of  her  surroundings  to  steep 
into  her  soul.  When  at  last  she  spoke,  it  was  freely,  and 
on  the  subject  nearest  her. 

"  Have  you  heard,  lately,  from  your  Brother?  " 

A  little  shock  of  surprise  ran  over  Georgiana ;  but  she 
did  not  make  the  mistake  of  showing  it.  "  This  morning," 
she  said,  quietly. 

"Ah!— He  is  well?" 

The  sister  glanced  up.  Virginia  must  not  be  allowed 
224 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


to  slip  back  into  her  formality.  "  He  is  very  unhappy," 
she  answered,  looking  frankly  at  her  vis-d-vis. 

Again  Virginia  sighed.  "  You  do  not  think — that  he 
will  leave  Sacramento,  do  you  ?  "  she  asked,  faintly. 

Mme.  Dupre  handed  her  a  cup  of  fragrant  tea,  and 
slightly  indicated  the  sandwiches.  "  I  do  not  know,"  she 
replied,  gravely,  "  what  Philip  will  do." 

There  was  silence  again.  Georgiana  carefully  poured 
a  thimbleful  of  rum  into  her  own  cup.  When  she  looked 
up  she  saw  a  slow,  bright  tear  sliding,  unheeded,  down 
Virginia's  cheek. 

"  Oh,  you  poor  child !  You  poor  little  child  I — I  adore 
my  Brother;  but  I  could  almost  hate  him  for  the  havoc 
he  is  making  of  your  life !  " 

It  was  out.  Georgiana  had  uttered  her  inmost 
thoughts.    What  would  result  ?    What  had  she  done  ? 

Virginia  started  to  her  feet,  and  her  cup  crashed  from 
her  hand.  Neither  noticed  it.  "  What — what  do  you 
mean  ? — Oh,  my  God,  do  you  know  ? — Do  you  know  ?  " 

She  was  back  upon  the  great  sofa,  Georgiana  beside 
her,  and  she  was  crying,  easily,  softly,  as  she  had  not 
hitherto  dared  to  cry  in  Chicago,  both  her  hands  hidden 
in  a  warm,  comforting,  woman's  clasp.  After  a  time  the 
little  storm  ceased,  another  cup  of  tea  was  poured,  and, 
with  Georgiana  still  close  beside  her,  Virginia  began  to 
talk,  in  snatches,  of  the  tumult  of  her  life. 

"  I'm  so  afraid ! — Here,  in  Grangeford,  everywhere, 
I  am  always  afraid.  There  are  his  letters.  I  keep  them 
with  me  in  my  own  room ;  and  they  are  locked  into  your 
wedding-present — the  gold  box  you  gave  me,  if  you  re- 

225 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


member,  I  burn  the  envelopes,  and  lay  the  paper  very 
close ;  but  the  box  is  full  now ;  and  I  have  a  superstition 
about  the  safety  of  keeping  them  anywhere  else.  I  know 
they  would  be  found.  I  never  go  out — I  scarcely  leave 
my  room  for  half  an  hour,  that  I'm  not  afraid,  on  going 
back  to  it,  that  I  shall  find  that  box  empty. — That  is  one 
of  so  many  things. — I  telegraphed  him  when  I  came  here. 
But  I  have  had  no  letter  in  five  days;  and  I  am  almost 
certain  that  one  went  to  Grangeford. — Oh,  if  you  knew 
of  the  hours  I  have  lain  awake  over  it !  Has  Charles  seen 
it  yet?    Would  he  open  it? 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mme.  Dupre !  I  think  I  must  be 
mad,  to-day.  What  have  I  said  to  you? — What  in  the 
world  do  you  think  of  me? — Do  you  despise  me  as  I 
should  be  despised  ?  " 

She  had  not  raised  her  voice.  Rather,  it  had  sunk 
into  a  dull,  monotonous  whisper,  that  harmonized  with 
her  tired  eyes  and  her  colorless  face.  Georgiana  Dupre 
marvelled  at  the  heartache  that  had  gone  to  produce  that 
tone. 

"  My  dear  child,  you  mustn't  let  it  prey  on  you.  Listen 
to  me.  If  you  have  any  fear  of  the  letters,  and  since  he 
writes  often,  send  the  old  ones,  in  a  sealed  package,  to 
me.  I  give  you  my  honor  that  that  seal  shall  never  be 
broken  while  I  live ;  and  that,  when  I  die,  the  letters  shall 
be  returned  to  you.  Or,  at  the  first  word  from  you  during 
our  lives,  I  will  send  them  at  once.  Will  this  help  you 
at  all?" 

Virginia  impulsively  put  out  her  hands.  "  How  good 
you  are !    That  will  help  me — infinitely.    I  will  send  them 

226 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


to  you,  to-night,  by  Lucy. — Oh!  how  can  you  bear  to 
speak  to  me  when  you  know  ?  The  people  in  Grangeford, 
my  oldest  friends,  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  me."  She 
trembled,  at  the  remembrance  of  her  isolation. 

"  Poor  child ! — What  a  curious  civilization  this  is ! 
We  are  very  willing  to  sell  our  daughters  into  marriage ; 
but  we  refuse  them  the  right  to  any  joy  in  their  slavery — 
any  relaxation  from  acting! — In  Europe,  Virginia — Ah, 
well !  If  the  time  comes  when  you  need  it,  Philip  shall 
stand  with  you,  shall  protect  you.  Be  sure  of  that.  He 
loves  you ;  and  he  is  a  gentleman." 

Virginia's  eyes  lifted  themselves  into  the  far-away. 
"  He  promised  me,  when  he  went  away,"  she  whispered, 
"  that,  when  I  should  send  for  him,  he  would  come." 

"  And  shall  you  send, — soon  ?  " 

"  Not  unless  I  am  obliged  to  go  back  soon  to  Grange- 
ford.  Perhaps  not  even  then.  If  I  can  bear  it  any 
longer,  I  will." 

"  Virginia,  do  you  not  wish  that  you  and  Philip  had 
never  seen  each  other  ?  " 

"  No !  "  The  answer  came  instantly,  and  the  dull  eyes 
were  suddenly  aflame.  "  No ! — If  it  means  ruin,  if  it 
means  death — even  to  both  of  us — I  shall  bless  God  that 
I  have  known  him  for  one  hour !  " 

Ah!  Heroic  Youth! — Who  dares  pity  thee,  or  thy 
fruitless  outpourings? 

That  same  night,  on  her  return  from  the  theatre,  Vir- 
ginia took  advantage  of  Mme.  Dupre's  offer.  Philip's 
letters  were  taken  from  their  hiding-place,  and,  after  a 

227 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


long  half-hour  of  tears  and  memories,  wrapped  in 
a  large  packet,  and  thrice  sealed.  Next  morning  Lucy 
took  them  to  the  Lexington,  where  Mme.  Dupre  received 
them  with  a  kind  of  reverence.  For  many  days  after 
their  going  Virginia  felt  as  one  robbed  of  a  great  treas- 
ure ;  but  there  came  to  her  also  a  kind  of  relief.  She  was 
like  a  criminal  who  has  destroyed  his  convicting  evidence. 

December  drew  along,  and  Charles  wrote  his  wife, 
demanding  the  date  of  her  return  to  Grangeford.  Her 
reply  put  it  off,  rather  peremptorily,  till  after  Christmas. 
She  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  little  intention  of  going  home 
then ;  for  a  highly  important  move  was  pending.  But  she 
wished  Christmas  day  to  bring  Charles  to  her  before  any 
discussion  should  arise. 

The  fact  was,  that  Mrs.  Merrill,  after  five  weeks  of 
something  approaching  her  old  life,  had  become  tired  of 
it  again.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  marked  difference  between 
present  apparent  circumstance  and  former  appearance 
which  made  itself  too  much  felt,  and  was  reflected  to  her 
from  the  people  she  knew,  constantly.  The  John  Merrills 
of  2787  Michigan  Avenue  were  not  Mrs.  Merrill  and  her 
husband  of  the  Hotel  Metropole.  And  the  first  to  under- 
stand this,  the  first  to  perceive  the  exact  relation  between 
her  and  her  friends  (  ?),  was  Caroline  Merrill.  She  was 
far  too  worldly-wise  to  demand  of  her  world  what  it 
could  never  contain:  a  disinterested  or  sincere  affection. 

Moreover,  and  it  is,  perhaps,  scarcely  just  that  this 
should  be  a  secondary  consideration,  the  atmosphere  of 
the  city  in  which  he  had  lived  his  disastrous  business 
life,  certainly  did  not  agree  with  John  Merrill  himself. 

228 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


His  mental  state  responded  with  abnormal  rapidity  to 
the  influence  of  remote  surroundings,  and  the  wretched 
climate.  Certainly  these,  in  Chicago,  are  not  things  de- 
sirable for  invalids.  Indeed,  since  the  beginning  of  his 
slow  disintegration,  the  broken  man  had  never  been  so 
lost  to  the  semblance  of  himself  as  after  his  brief  rally  on 
Virginia's  arrival. 

For  these  various  reasons  Mrs.  Merrill,  during  the 
days  before  Christmas,  made  arrangements  to  depart 
again,  on  the  fourth  day  of  the  New  Year,  for  Pasadena, 
in  Southern  California.  And  she  urged  Virginia,  with 
unnecessary  earnestness,  to  gain  permission  from  Charles 
to  go  with  her  parents.  Mrs.  Merrill  was,  perforce,  frank 
with  her  daughter.  She  could  not  give  an  actual  invita- 
tion to  her  to  go;  because  there  was  not  money  enough 
for  the  addition  of  Virginia  alone,  much  less  the  inval- 
uable Lucy,  on  the  long  railway  journey  and  in  the 
expensive  hotel  at  the  end  of  it.  But,  since  Virginia  had 
left  Grangeford  for  scarcely  a  day  in  three  years,  it  did 
not  seem  as  if  Charles  could  be  so  selfish  as  to  refuse  his 
wife  one  month  in  a  warm  climate,  with  her  Father  and 
Mother  for  guardians. 

So  Mrs.  Merrill  and  her  daughter  reasoned  together, 
bravely ;  and  all  the  time  each,  in  her  own  heart,  doubted 
her  logic;  and  each  surmised  the  doubts  of  the  other. 
For  though  Mrs.  Merrill  was  unwilling  to  attempt  to 
probe  the  secret  of  Virginia's  unhappiness,  she  could  not 
be  ignorant  of  its  existence ;  and  she  remembered  the  cold 
eyes,  the  strong  chin,  of  her  son-in-law  with  almost  as 
much  dread  as  Virginia  had  of  them. 

229 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Christmas  eve  brought  both  Charles  and  the  oppor- 
tunity for  speech.  Late  on  the  evening  of  the  twenty- 
fourth,  it  being  a  Sunday,  Mrs.  Merrill,  Virginia  and 
Van  Studdiford  found  themselves  alone,  together,  in  the 
small  sitting-room  devoted  to  the  ladies.  For  some  mo- 
ments the  conversation  had  drooped  and  showed  a  strong 
tendency  to  die  away  altogether,  when  Mrs.  Merrill, 
hurriedly  grasping  the  situation,  introduced  her  topic 
without  any  preliminary,  and  was  forced,  by  Charles'  in- 
quiring silence,  to  continue  and  finish  it  before  anyone 
else  spoke.  When  finally  she  paused,  Charles  knew  the 
whole  plan;  and  his  wife  and  her  Mother  sat  watching 
him,  tremulously  anxious. 

For  several  moments  he  hesitated,  not  because  he  was 
in  any  way  undecided  as  to  his  own  course,  but  because 
he  respected  Mrs.  Merrill,  and  sought  to  find  some  com- 
prehensible justification  for  his  ungraciousness  without 
suggesting  its  real  reason. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  began,  at  last,  "  that  you  have  made 
this  plan  for  Virginia,  because  I  should  very  much  like 
to  allow  her  to  go;  yet  I  am — um — selfish — enough,  to 
prefer  that  she  take  her  journeys  with  me.  I  had  been 
planning,  lately,  to  wind  up  affairs  at  the  factory  by 
Spring,  and  get  away  to  Europe  for  some  months ;  and 
I  prefer  that,  until  then,  Virginia  should  stay  with  me, 
in  Grangeford." 

"  But,  my  dear  Charles,  is  it  so  impossible  that  Vir- 
ginia should  do  both  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  quizzically.  "  I  am 
afraid  so,"  said  he, 

230 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Mrs.  Merrill's  face  flushed.  She  was  angry  at  the  curt 
assurance  with  which  this  man  decided  every  question. 
"  I  beg  you  to  remember,  Charles,  that  a  Mother  has  some 
little  claim  upon  a  daughter,  even  though  she  be  married. 
I  think " 

"  Mother — stop,  please !  Nothing  can  be  gained,  now. 
If  you  should  plead  for  me  for  a  year,  you  couldn't  move 
him. — I  have — got  to  stay." 

Virginia  had  risen  to  her  feet,  and  was  looking  at  her 
Mother  with  all  her  hopelessness,  anger  and  distress 
written  in  her  white  face  and  brilliant  eyes.  Seeing  that 
face,  seeing  how  much  lay  in  it  that  her  little  daugh- 
ter would  have  been  incapable  of  three  years  ago,  the 
Mother's  anger  was  lost  in  wonder — in  something  more : 
in  dread,  in  apprehension.  There  swept  over  her,  at  this 
moment,  a  great  wave  of  regret,  of  remorse  that  Virginia's 
marriage  should  lie  at  her  door.  Then,  feeling  herself 
unfit  for  the  presence  of  anyone,  she  rose,  kissed  Virginia 
quietly  on  the  forehead,  and,  without  a  glance  at  her  son- 
in-law,  hurriedly  left  the  room. 

Once  alone  with  his  wife  Charles'  face  changed. 
Through  the  short  preceding  scene  it  had  been  as  im- 
passive as  a  mask.  Now,  as  he  looked  at  Virginia,  sitting 
mute  and  despondent  on  a  sofa  against  the  wall,  he  sud* 
denly  flushed  an  angry  red,  and,  springing  to  his  feet, 
began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  floor.  She  sat  watching 
him  till,  by  slow  degrees,  the  wrath  in  her  own  heart 
rose  to  her  lips,  and,  forgetting  all  her  fear  of  her  hus- 
band, she  suddenly  rose  up,  crying: 

"  Why  is  it  that  you  insist  upon  keeping  me  an 
231 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


eternal  prisoner  in  that  dreadful  country  town?  Why 
can't  I  go  with  my  Mother  to  Pasadena  ?  " 

Charles  stopped  short  in  his  walk,  and  turned  on  her : 
"  You  ask  me  why  you  can't  go  to  California?  You  ask 
me  why  I  don't  care  to  have  you  follow  Atkinson  to " 

His  pause  was  abrupt,  for  Virginia,  with  a  white- 
faced  "  Oh !  "  had  swept  out  of  the  room. 

That  little  scene  was  the  end  of  hope,  for  both 
Mother  and  daughter.  In  some  fashion  Christmas  day 
was  gone  through  with :  for  Virginia  more  easily  than  for 
her  Mother;  for  the  daughter  could  remember  what  the 
last  one  had  been,  and  wonder,  a  little  more  drearily, 
what  the  next  would  bring.  Virginia  was  very  disap- 
pointed in  her  gifts  this  year.  No  one  gave  her  jewels — 
which  are  so  readily  converted  into  money.  Charles' 
present  was  books :  a  set  of  Chopin's  music,  bound  in  red 
morocco,  with  her  monogram  in  gold  on  each  volume; 
and  a  fine  little  set  of  Jane  Austen,  whom,  by  a  curious 
incongruity,  he  himself  liked  very  much  to  read.  Her 
Mother  gave  her  some  favrile  glass;  and  the  various 
trifles  from  her  acquaintances  did  not  amount  to  much. 
Only  from  Philip  came  a  jewel  which  would  never  be 
sold :  a  heart,  cut  from  rock  crystal,  set  on  a  slender  chain 
between  two  pink  pearls — which  had  lately  become  her 
favorite  stone. 

On  the  twenty-sixth,  Charles  went  back  to  Grange- 
ford  ;  and,  though  Virginia  was  not  with  him,  he  did  not 
go  alone.  For  Charles  was  a  man  of  men.  Discouraged 
and  weary  of  his  matrimonial  mistake,  he  did  not  now 
scruple  to  make  arrangements  for  his  comfort  in  the  shape 

232 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


of  a  certain  little  house  in  Burton  Street,  five  minutes' 
walk  from  the  factory,  in  which  Muriel  Howard  decided 
that,  at  the  rate  of  a  thousand  a  month,  she  could  make 
herself  comparatively  comfortable — until  it  should  be 
time  for  Europe. 

Virginia,  entirely  unsuspicious  of  anything  of  that 
sort,  though  she  would  probably  not  have  grieved  much 
had  she  known  it,  remained  in  Chicago  until  the  last  pos- 
sible moment.  That  was,  however,  only  till  the  third  of 
January.  For,  on  the  following  day,  her  Father  and 
Mother  were  to  leave  for  the  West.  The  separation  from 
her  Mother  was  harder  to  face  than  she  had  thought  it 
would  be.  When  she  gave  Mrs.  Merrill  a  last  kiss  it 
was  with  a  feeling  of  death  in  her  heart.  And  Mrs.  Mer- 
rill's arms  clung  about  her  child  as  tenderly  as  if  she  had 
known  all  that  the  direful  future  held  for  the  daughter 
who,  in  her  eyes,  could  never  be  anything  but  her  little 
girl.  Perhaps  she  guessed  a  good  deal  of  the  secret 
bitterness  that  filled  the  Grangeford  home,  where  the  two- 
edged  sword  had  hung  for  so  long  by  its  single  hair. 
And  the  young  wife  also,  as  she,  with  Lucy  by  her  side, 
drove  away  through  the  snowy  streets  to  the  station, 
shivered,  from  time  to  time,  as  if  the  cold  shadow  of 
impending  Tragedy  had  already  fallen  across  her  heart. 


16  233 


CHAPTER   XIV 

Virginia  went  back  into  the  old,  dreaded  existence, 
and  endured  it  for  nearly  six  weeks  without  any  out- 
ward signs  of  rebellion.  During  that  time  her  whole 
life  might  be  summed  up  in  three  words:  inward 
struggle,  loneliness.  It  would  scarcely  be  worth  while, 
even  if  one  could,  to  go  into  its  endless,  monotonous  de- 
tail. Virginia  sickened  under  it,  growing  more  than 
ever  transparently  frail,  and  slender,  and  languid.  There 
were  days  when  her  soul  shone  fiercely  in  her  eyes :  many 
others  when  those  eyes  were  dull,  and  she  herself,  through 
all  the  dreary  hours,  gave  scarce  a  sign  of  life.  Even 
Lucy  Markle,  model  of  fidelity  that  she  was,  became  res- 
tive and  sulky  and  unmanageable  under  the  strained 
dreariness  of  the  huge,  empty  house.  It  was  with  her,  as 
with  Virginia,  only  the  thought,  the  hope,  of  Atkinson, 
that  kept  her  for  an  hour  in  her  place. 

Inevitably,  as  rivers,  however  long  their  course,  come 
at  last  to  the  sea,  or  as  living  things  that  are  caught  in  that 
water  if  left  unaided,  must  finally  succumb,  there  came  a 
day  when  Virginia  knew  that  inaction  was  no  longer 
tolerable.  She  had  lived  through  just  the  psychological 
number  of  solitary  hours  that  lead  to  desperation.  She 
had  fought  against  temptation  till  her  strength  was  gone. 
And  now,  since  help  did  not  come  to  her,  she  knew  that 

234 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


she  must  find  it  for  herself.  Perhaps  not  even  she,  cer- 
tainly not  Charles,  dreamed  that  salvation  had  lain  in  that 
refused  journey  to  Pasadena.  There  her  world  would 
have  been  different.  She  would  have  had  occupation; 
sights,  sounds,  companionship  to  take  her  mind  from 
its  constant  love-longing.  But,  with  all  the  stupidity 
of  a  jealous  man,  Charles  had  seen  fit  to  do  just  that 
thing  that  must  bring  disaster,  believing  that  there  should 
be  sufficient  diversion  for  her  in  seeing  him  twice  a  day 
at  table,  and  conversing  with  him  over  factory  topics  for 
an  hour  each  evening.  Was  it  possible  that  she  should 
bear  all  his  contemplated  months  of  this  ?  Could  woman 
of  flesh  and  blood — ^and  Virginia,  however  refined,  had 
both — have  endured  it  longer  than  she  ?  Verily,  all  things 
considered,  she  proved  her  frailty  but  tardily,  enduring 
her  martyrdom  of  emptiness  till  February  was  more  than 
a  third  gone. 

During  the  six  weeks  of  his  wife's  suffering,  however, 
Charles  was  leading  a  new  and  invigorating  life.  He  had 
retrograded  into  the  habits  of  bachelor  days. — More  than 
this ;  for  now  he  was  actually  neglecting  his  business  for 
that  little  house  in  Burton  street,  in  which  Muriel  Howard 
vowed  that  nothing  should  induce  her  to  remain  if  he 
did  not  give  up  to  her  at  least  six  hours  out  of  the  twenty- 
four  :  a  condition  not  very  easy  for  him  to  fulfill.  But  her 
loneliness  Charles  understood  perfectly.  Was  she  not 
lonely  for  himf  And  had  she  not  a  magnificent  figure, 
and  wonderful  yellow  hair,  and  the  most  meaning  blue 
eyes,  together  with  a  mouth  of  which  the  red  lips  were 
not  a  whit  too  full  ?    Truly  here  was  a  woman !  a  woman 

235 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


of  red  blood.  Muriel  was  no  frail,  Dresden  lady,  with 
quiet  eyes  that  looked  beyond  one,  and  a  delicate  mouth 
that  curled  too  disdainfully  for  any  comfort.  On  the 
contrary  she  was  a  vigorous  person,  outspoken,  and  with 
strong  tastes  in  the  way  of  fine  horses  and  dry  wines 
that  jumped  excellently  with  Van  Studdiford's  own. 
Easily,  and  joyously,  she  brought  out  all  that  was  most 
characteristic  in  her  companion  of  the  moment;  and  no 
man,  unless  he  was  of  effeminate  refinement,  was  ever  ill 
at  ease  in  her  presence.  With  her  Charles,  since  his 
return  from  Chicago,  had  been  laughing  himself  back  into 
a  state  of  content  that  he  had  not  known  in  many,  many 
months.  Let  women  turn  away  their  faces  at  sight  of 
him,  and  men  remonstrate  by  their  very  expressions: 
Charles  cared  little  about  his  neighbors,  and  nothing  at 
all  for  his  reputation. 

The  hours  that  he  now  kept  were  unusual  to  him.  He 
rarely  lunched  at  home.  Muriel's  table  attracted  him  far 
more  than  that  of  the  house  on  the  hill;  and  Muriel's 
personality  was  so  fascinating  that  he  rarely  cared  to 
leave  her  till  the  afternoon  was  drawing  to  a  close.  Of 
this  his  wife,  from  her  cold  solitude,  guessed  nothing. 
And  thereby  came  about  that  accident  which  dilatory 
Fate,  watching  a  convenient,  leisurely  moment,  had 
chosen  for  the  climax  of  her  isolated  drama. 

At  a  little  after  four  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  Fri- 
day, the  tenth  of  November,  Charles  came  out  of  42 
Burton  Street  and  turned  his  steps  reluctantly  toward 
the  factory.  As  he  rounded  the  corner  of  Butler  Avenue 
— which,    beyond    the    river,    becomes    Butler    Street — 

236 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


he  saw,  walking  ahead  of  him,  a  woman  whose  back 
looked  strangely  familiar.  For  a  moment  or  two  he 
stared,  unable  to  place  it.  Not  till  she  turned  her  head 
to  glance  at  a  passing  team  did  he  recognize  her  as  Lucy 
Markle. — Lucy — abroad  at  this  hour:  Lucy,  walking 
rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  Rock  Island  station ! 

Before  he  had  gone  a  hundred  yards  further  Van 
Studdiford's  mood  and  trend  of  thought  had  changed, 
absolutely.  All  his  interests  were  centred  in  Lucy;  and 
by  the  time  the  next  comer  was  reached  every  dormant 
suspicion  had  been  roused  again  in  him,  and  he  was  not 
on  his  way  to  the  factory,  but  following  his  wife's 
maid.  She  was  certainly  a  good  messenger;  for  she 
walked  straight  and  rapidly,  never  looking  behind  her; 
and  Charles,  unskilled  as  he  was  at  his  task,  found  no 
difficulty  in  keeping  undiscovered.  Arrived  at  the  sta- 
tion, he  saw,  with  a  little  mental  start,  that  she  went 
straight  to  the  telegraph  office.  He  had  not  thought  of 
this;  and,  as  he  slipped  into  one  of  the  waiting-rooms, 
he  was  thanking  his  stars  for  his  good-fortune  in  having 
seen  and  followed  her.  While  he  waited,  his  plan,  a 
very  simple  one,  took  shape  in  his  mind.  He  knew  the 
operator,  Bradley,  well.  In  fact  the  man  had  obtained 
his  position  through  Van  Studdiford;  and  there  would 
be  no  difficulty  in  what  he  wanted  to  do,  provided  his 
manner  were  controlled  and  plausible. 

It  was  less  than  five  minutes  after  she  had  gone  in 
when  Lucy  emerged  again  from  the  office,  and,  still  with- 
out looking  about  her,  set  off  in  the  direction  from  which 
she  had  come. 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


Five  seconds  later  Charles  stood  in  the  spot  she  had 
just  left  and,  to  his  high  satisfaction,  saw  a  written  tele- 
gram lying  on  the  counter,  while  Bradley,  at  a  little 
distance,  was  taking  down  a  message  just  coming  over 
the  wire.  Van  Studdiford  waited  till  the  man  turned. 
Then  he  spoke,  in  his  most  agreeable  tone. 

"  Ah,  Bradley,  good-day.  My  wife  thinks  she  has 
made  a  mistake  in  that  telegram. — Is  this  it? " 

"  Right  there,  Mr.  Van  Studdiford,  before  you. 
That's  it,"  he  nodded,  as  Charles  drew  the  yellow  paper 
toward  him,  and  read,  slowly : 

"  Mr.  Philip  Atkinson, 
"  231  Heger  St., 

"  Sacramento,  California. 
"  I  claim  your  promise.     Come  to  me  immediately. 
Have  written  care  Mme.  Dupre.    Wire  reply  to  Lucy. 

"  V." 

For  a  moment  or  two  Charles  remained  silent,  and,  as 
he  leaned  upon  the  counter,  the  paper  blurred  before  his 
eyes.  Then,  as  Bradley  stared  at  him,  and  began  to  real- 
ize that  he  was  transgressing  a  stringent  rule,  Charles 
straightened,  and  smiled,  constrainedly, 

"No,"  said  he.  "This  is  all  right.— Send  it,  at 
once.  And — ^by  the  way — how  soon  can  we  expect  a 
reply?" 

Bradley  glanced  at  the  clock.  "It's  about  two-thirty 
there,  you  see.    A  message  might  be  here  by  eight." 

"  All  right.  I  will  call  for  it  about  that  time.  You 
needn't  trouble  to  send  it  up." 

238 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


All  at  once  Bradley's  face  changed.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Sir,  but — it  was  your  wife  who  sent  that  message, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

Charles  laughed : — laughed  uncommonly  well.  "  It 
was  my  wife's  maid  who  came  with  it ;  but  it's  Mrs.  Van 
Studdiford's  message. — That  *  V.'  " — pointing — "  stands 
for  *  Virginia,'  you  know. — Besides,  what  on  earth  should 
I  want  of  anybody's  telegrams  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir.  You  see "  Brad- 
ley's face  was  clear  again,  and  Van  Studdiford  cut  in, 
genially : 

"  You're  perfectly  right,  Bradley.  I'd  recommend 
you  to  Clowry  for  what  you've  done. — ^Just  hold  that  mes- 
sage till  eight,  if  it  comes.  It'll  simply  save  you 
the  boy;  for  I've  got  to  be  at  the  factory  overtime 
to-night." 

"  Very  well,  sir.    Thank  you.    Good-day." 

Charles  nodded,  a  little  curtly,  and  left  the  office,  turn- 
ing his  steps  at  last  toward  the  factory.  But  the  weight 
that  he  carried  with  him  out  of  that  small  room  would 
successfully  preclude  any  possibility  of  work  for  the  next 
four  hours. 

By  the  event  and  the  accident  of  that  afternoon,  the 
relative  states  of  mind  of  Virginia  and  her  husband  were 
suddenly  changed  about.  Since  her  return  from  Chicago 
Virginia  had  not  spent  so  light-hearted  an  evening  as  that 
which  followed  the  sending  of  her  telegram.  For  she 
had  met  her  crisis  and  passed  it.  Her  work  was  done ;  and 
now  the  responsibility  lay  wholly  with  Philip,  whom  she 
trusted  as  herself.    Hence,  in  her  new  relief,  she  gave  little 

239 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


heed  to  Charles'  preoccupation  during  dinner ;  and,  when 
he  left  the  house  at  a  quarter  before  eight,  in  the  phaeton, 
"  to  go  to  the  factory,"  she  scarcely  listened  to  his  careful 
explanation,  exactly  like  so  many  that  he  had  made  of 
late,  but  swiftly  retreated  to  her  own  rooms,  where  she 
and  Lucy  held  a  long  and  joyous  consultation  before  she 
went  to  bed  and  to  sleep. 

Through  the  whole  night  and  well  into  the  morning 
she  slept  restfuUy ;  for  there  were  long  arrears  of  wake- 
ful, anxious  hours  to  be  made  up.  And  when,  at  ten 
o'clock,  she  woke,  there  lay  in  her  heart  a  feeling  of  min- 
gled joy  and  expectancy. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  when  she  had  washed  away  her 
drowsiness  and  then  crept  lazily  back  to  bed,  a  silk 
kimono  thrown  over  her  night-gown,  Lucy  appeared 
with  a  breakfast-tray,  on  which,  under  the  plate,  lay  a 
yellow  envelope  addressed  to  "  Lucy  Markle."  At  sight 
of  it,  all  the  blood  in  Virginia's  face  rushed  to  her  heart, 
and  then  suddenly  flew  back  again,  suffusing  her  cheeks 
with  crimson.  Her  hand  shook  as  she  took  up  the  sealed 
telegram;  and  her  eyes  and  Lucy's  met,  in  a  look  half 
fearful,  half  joyous,  wholly  eager, 

"  When — did  it  come  ?  "  Virginia  asked,  in  a  half- 
whisper. 

"  I  don't  know,  Madam.  It  was  lying  on  the  hall 
table  when  I  went  down,  this  morning,  at  eight." 

"  How  odd  that  Carson  did  not  bring  it  to  you  when 
it  came! "  But  she  wasted  no  time  in  conjecture.  In  a 
moment  it  was  open,  and  Philip's  words  were  before  her 
eyes.     She  read  slowly: 

240 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


"  Lucy  Markle, 

"585  James  Road, 

"Grangeford,  Illinois. 
"  Start  East  on  Sunday.    Am  writing  arrangements. 
Be  ready  to  leave  on  my  arrival.    Address  Dupre,  Chi- 
cago. P.  C.  A." 

Once  she  read  it,  and  twice ;  and  then,  suddenly,  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  gave  a  convulsive  sob. 
"  Lucy !  "  she  cried,  hysterically,  "  Lucy,  he's  really  com- 
ing! He  is  coming  to  me! — Oh! — why  did  I  wait  so 
long?" 

Philip  was,  indeed,  coming  to  her.  He  had  taken  the 
decisive  step  instinctively,  with  all  the  eagerness  in  the 
world,  and  without  five  minutes'  consideration  of  what 
it  actually  meant.  Care  and  practicality  had  been  nearly 
deadened  in  him  by  ten  weeks  of  hard  work  and  the  ex- 
clusive society  of  Henry  Fiirst,  the  man  of  figures.  Vir- 
ginia's message  was  a  call  from  Heaven  to  him  in  his  dull, 
expiative  purgatory.  Should  he,  then,  not  answer  it, 
though  it  but  opened  for  him  the  doors  of  the  third,  the 
lowest  world?  The  morning  of  Sunday,  February  the 
twelfth,  found  him  in  San  Francisco;  and  on  the  same 
afternoon  he  left  that  lively  city  by  the  North-Western 
limited,  which,  on  Thursday  morning,  was  to  land  him 
in  Chicago,  two  hours  away  from  the  woman  he  so  reck- 
lessly loved.  And  already,  as  he  raced  along,  up  through 
the  Rockies,  there  ran,  ahead  of  him,  his  letter,  telling 
Virginia  to  expect  him,  in  the  old  guise,  by  the  old  signals, 
on  Thursday  night :  the  night  of  February  the  sixteenth. 

241 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Both  lovers,  absorbed  in  the  one  thought  of  seeing 
each  other  again,  and  in  their  plans  for  a  union  that  should 
thenceforth  defy  the  old  laws  of  separation,  cast  care  to 
the  winds,  nor  gave  a  moment's  thought  to  the  desperate 
seriousness  of  the  step  they  were  making.  But,  by  one 
of  the  unjust  laws  of  life,  the  care  that  should  have  been 
theirs  had  been  shifted  to  the  shoulders  of  two  other 
people,  a  man  and  a  woman,  each  very  near  to  one  of  the 
reckless  twain :  Mme.  Dupre  and  Charles  Van  Studdiford. 

Georgiana,  on  receipt  of  her  Brother's  letter  an- 
nouncing his  departure  for  Chicago,  sat  down  with  it 
in  her  drawing-room,  denied  herself  to  everyone,  and 
smoked  twenty  cigarettes  before  she  could  bring  herself 
to  the  admission  that  she  must  not  interfere  in  Philip's 
drama.  She  divined  the  crisis ;  she  perceived  its  dangers ; 
buf  she  perfectly  understood  that  interference  from  her 
would  not  do.  At  the  same  time,  she  guessed  that  which 
her  mad  Brother  did  not  appear  to  realize :  that  Van  Stud- 
diford was  not  a  man  to  be  trifled  with  or  wronged  with 
impunity.  And  this,  at  least,  however  vainly,  she  should 
attempt  to  impress  upon  Philip  when  he  arrived. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Georgiana  Dupre  read  her  cousin 
as  Charles  could  scarcely  have  read  himself.  At  this  time, 
however,  his  inward  nature  was  disclosing  itself  to  him  in 
aspects  that  amazed  him  a  little.  He  was  startled  at  the 
emotions  which  Virginia,  proved  faithless,  still  could 
rouse  in  him.  He  was  astonished  at  the  force  of  the  in- 
ward rage  that  had  governed  him  ever  since  the  accidental 
discovery  of  the  telegram.  He  was  yet  more  surprised  at 
the  instinct  for  deduction  that  was  disclosing  itself  within 

242 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


him.  During  the  six  days  that  elapsed  after  the  sending 
of  the  message,  he  did  many  things  that  he  should  never 
have  believed  himself  capable  of.  He  read  every  letter 
that  came  into  the  house,  Philip's  included ;  and  he  spent 
long,  patient  hours  in  sponging  open  sealed  envelopes  and 
pasting  them  together  again  so  neatly  that  the  opening 
would  never  be  surmised.  And  when  at  last  Thursday 
morning  came,  the  morning  that  brought  Philip  to  Chi- 
cago, the  morning  of  the  night  that  was  to  see  him  in 
Grangeford,  Charles  knew  far  more  than  his  wife  of  the 
probable  events  of  the  darkness  up  to  a  certain  point.  But 
beyond  that,  beyond  the  moment  when  his  treacherous 
cousin  should  meet  him,  face  to  face,  with  all  the  cards 
turned  up  on  the  table  between  them,  Charles  could  not 
go.  As  he  thought  the  whole  situation  over,  the  blood 
surged  through  his  temples,  his  heart  throbbed,  heavily, 
and  he  was  shaken  by  the  force  of  his  unexpressed  pas- 
sion. Yet,  with  it  all^  he  could  form  no  definite  plan  of 
action.  He  could  not,  in  cold  blood,  plan  the  killing  of  a 
man.  He  must  wait,  he  knew,  till  the  Aioment  brought 
its  inspiration. 

During  these  days,  which  drew  such  sinister  dreams 
through  her  husband's  brain,  Virginia,  the  wife,  was  at 
work  in  her  rooms,  sorting  and  arranging  her  clothes, 
her  letters,  all  the  innumerable  personal  belongings  that 
a  pretty  woman  gathers  about  her,  making  ready  for  that 
vaguely  planned  flight  which  the  interview  on  Thursday 
night  was  to  mould  into  definite  form.  She  was  so  sure 
of  her  lover's  safety,  so  entirely  unsuspicious  of  any 
danger,   that   a  thousand    suggestive   incidents   passed 

243 
1 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


before  her  blind  eyes  without  making  any  impression  on 
her;  though  not  a  move  that  she  or  Lucy  made  escaped 
her  husband's  watchfulness.  He  knew  that  she  was  pack- 
ing clothes.  He  obtained,  and  read,  and  himself  mailed, 
her  last  letter  of  directions  to  Philip.  He  knew  the  tune 
that  Atkinson  was  to  whistle  as  a  signal  of  his  waiting  in 
the  grounds.  On  Wednesday  night,  from  the  almost 
closed  door  of  his  dark  library,  he  watched  Lucy  oil- 
ing the  hinges  of  the  side  door.  That  made  his  informa- 
tion complete.  His  manner  after  that  was  as  placid  as 
that  of  a  detective  who  sees  his  way  clear  to  a  great  coup. 
So  Thursday  dawned:  the  morning  of  the  final  day 
of  doubt.  And  Thursday  rose  to  noon,  and  declined 
toward  its  twilight,  with  the  approach  of  which  three 
hearts  in  the  house  on  the  hill  found  themselves  throb- 
bing unsteadily  in  the  knowledge  of  a  crisis,  imminent, 
but  still  shrouded  in  the  grim  mask  and  domino  of  unre- 
vealed  time. 


244 


CHAPTER   XV 

On  this  same  afternoon  of  February  sixteenth  Ma- 
dame Dupre  was  sitting  before  the  flickering  gas-log  in 
her  living-room,  puffing,  rather  more  thoughtfully  than 
daintily,  at  her  cigarette.  Her  fingers  betrayed  her  state 
of  mind.  Mme.  Dupre  was  troubled.  She  was  also  wait- 
ing. And  all  her  thoughts  were  of  him  for  whom  she 
waited : — her  erratic  and  dearly  loved  brother,  Philip. 

The  Viennese  clock  on  her  mantel  chimed  the  quarter 
after  three;  and  before  the  pretty  notes  had  died  away 
Atkinson  appeared  through  the  far  doorway,  dressed  in 
a  suit  of  tweeds,  and  carrying  over  one  arm  a  long,  rough 
overcoat.  In  his  other  hand  was  a  cap.  These  he  flung 
together  upon  a  chair,  as  he  came  forward,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  clock. 

"You're  ready — so  early?"  demanded  Georgiana, 
without  turning. 

"  I  haven't  too  much  time. — The  train  leaves  at  four- 
thirty,"  he  returned,  in  a  voice  the  calibre  of  which  she 
scarcely  recognized. 

The  sister  turned  and  examined  him,  deliberately. 
Then  she  motioned  him  to  a  chair  close  beside  her,  and 
offered  him  a  cigarette  from  her  gold  chatelaine.  "  You're 
nervous !  "  she  observed,  brusquely. 

245 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


He  replied  only  by  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 
Nevertheless,  anyone  watching  the  flame  of  the  match 
that  he  held  up,  would  have  perceived  its  tremor.  Geor- 
giana  saw  it,  he  knew. 

"  Thank  God  you  are  nervous ! — as  nervous  as  I  am," 
she  began,  softly  enough  not  to  startle  him.  "  Now  I 
beg  of  you,  plead  with  you,  that  you  telegraph  how  impos- 
sible it  is  for  you  to  go.  Arrange  some  rendezvous  here, 
in  town.  Let  her  come  to  you ;  and,  if  you  actually  must 
carry  out  your  madness,  she  need  not  return  to  Grange- 
ford.  But " — she  turned  to  him,  and  he  saw  her  look 
with  astonishment — "  I  beg,  I  pray,  Philip,  that  you  will 
not  go  there  to-night !  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  know,  I  am  sure,  I  have  a  strong  pre- 
sentiment, that  things  will  go  very  badly  with  you." 

"  Oh — that  is  nonsense.  You  have  no  sort  of  reason 
for  thinking  so." 

"  Reason !  Do  you  mean  to  pretend  to  me  that  there 
is  no  risk  ?  " 

From  one  of  his  coat  pockets  he  took  a  small,  beau- 
tifully mounted  revolver,  and  weighed  it  lightly  in  his 
hand.    "  There  is  a  risk— certainly,"  he  replied. 

For  a  few  moments  only  the  ticking  of  the  clock  and 
the  little  whir  of  the  gas-flames  were  to  be  heard  in  the 
room.  But,  after  a  very  long  pause,  Georgiana  began 
again,  persistently: 

"  Charles  can,  believe  me,  be  a  dangerous  man  when 
he  chooses." 

There  was  no  reply. 

246 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  Philip — "  she  leaned  forward,  with  an  air  that 
would  have  won  the  world  for  her  from  a  lover,  "  will 
you,  for  my  sake,  give  up  this  mad  expedition  ?  " 

"  No,  dear,"  he  answered,  at  once  but  very  quietly. 
"  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  has  sent  for  me. — There  was  a 
promise. — I  cannot  possibly  disregard  it." 

"  You  see,  I  don't  ask  you  to  give  her  up." 

Philip  rose,  impatiently.  "  I  can't  discuss  this  thing, 
Georgiana,  even  with  you. — There  are,  though,  one  or 
two  things  that  I've  got  to  say.  Only — I  forbid  you  to 
imagine,  because  I  say  them,  that  the  danger  is  imminent, 
or  that  I  have  any  idea  that  it  is." 

"  What  are  the  things  ?  "  she  asked,  turning  her  chair 
to  face  the  room,  up  and  down  which  he  was  now  pacing. 

"  My  papers — her  letters — are  in  the  little  wooden 
chest  on  my  bedroom  floor. — Here's  the  key. — Don't,  at 
least,  open  it  before  to-morrow  afternoon,"  he  added, 
smiling  at  her  tactlessly. 

She  took  the  key  in  silence,  forgiving  him  the  dis- 
courtesy of  the  speech  because  of  the  sudden  sinking  of 
her  heart.  She  knew  that  there  was  not  the  slightest  use 
in  further  argument,  though  a  thousand  remonstrances, 
bom  each  of  a  different  fear,  suggested  themselves  to  her. 
There  was  a  little  more  talk.  A  few  more  directions,  such 
as  he  had  not  thought  of  when  leaving  for  Cuba,  were 
given ;  and  then,  to  the  common  relief,  early  tea  appeared, 
and  they  ate  and  drank  hastily,  and  rather  abstractedly. 

At  a  quarter  to  four  Philip  started  up  and  donned 
his  coat  and  cap.  Then  he  turned  to  his  sister,  for 
good-bye. 

247 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


It  was  over,  the  kiss  that  meant  so  much  more  than 
the  usual,  hurried  salute  between  brother  and  sister.  She 
had  gone  with  him  to  the  door  of  the  apartment,  and  had 
seen  him  into  the  elevator.  Then  she  turned  back  to  her 
empty  rooms,  threw  herself  upon  a  couch,  and  tried 
to  stifle  her  thoughts.  For  the  presentiment  in  her  heart 
told  the  truth  to  her,  Philip's  eyes  would  never  look  into 
hers  again. 

The  last  afternoon  train  that  stopped  at  Grangeford 
steamed  out  of  the  Rock  Island  station  at  half  past  four, 
with  Philip  aboard.  By  a  quarter  past  six  it  had  left  him 
at  his  destination,  and  was  roaring  along  through  a  little 
gully,  past  a  dangerous  crossing  two  miles  south  of  the 
town  but  scarcely  three-quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  Van 
Studdiford  house :  it  being,  in  fact,  the  James  road  which 
there  intersected  the  track.  It  was  not  customary  to  stop 
the  train  at  this  point,  however ;  and  Philip  was  in  town 
with  at  least  five  hours  of  idleness  before  him,  coupled 
with  the  fear  that  he  might  be  seen  and  recognized  by 
some  of  the  townspeople.  Nor  did  he  even  remember 
this  point  of  the  train's  road-bed  beyond  Grangeford. 

Night  fell,  lazily ;  and,  in  the  Van  Studdiford  house, 
the  always  formal  dinner  came  to  an  end.  It  had  passed 
fairly  well,  to-night ;  for  Virginia  and  her  husband  were 
both  keenly  on  the  alert,  and  talked  unconsciously.  An 
outsider,  listening,  would  have  been  impressed  by  the 
flow  of  polite  conversation  between  this  man  and  woman 
who  had  been  married  nearly  four  years,  and  were  child- 
less.   Nor  did  either  one  make  any  attempt  to  shorten  the 

248 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


after-dinner  hour.  Van  Studdiford  sat  at  the  drawing- 
room  table,  drinking  black  coffee;  and  Virginia  was  at 
the  piano,  keeping  all  thoughts  at  bay  with  the  most 
brilliant  of  Chopin's  waltzes.  Nevertheless,  the  hour 
passed.  At  nine  o'clock  Virginia  rose  and  said  good- 
night in  a  voice  that  wavered  a  little,  in  spite  of  herself. 
As  she  swept  slowly  out  of  the  room,  wondering  absurdly 
if  Charles  could  discern  the  force  of  her  heartbeats  from 
her  back,  Van  Studdiford  sat  motionless,  staring  fixedly 
after  her.  When  the  door  had  closed,  he  did  not  move 
but  gazed  into  space  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  till  Carson 
came  to  remove  the  coffee,  and  he  found  it  expedient  to 
go  to  the  library. 

Virginia  and  Lucy  were  together  now,  engaged  in 
the  dearly-loved  preparation  that  women  find  so  many 
excuses  for  making.  To-night  there  were  no  flowers  in 
the  room :  no  roses,  to  welcome  Philip's  coming.  The  oc- 
casion was  a  serious  one,  and  but  the  means  to  an  end. 
It  was  to  be  not  so  much  a  snatch  at  happiness  as  the 
occasion  of  planning  for  a  lifetime  of  lawful  and  un- 
broken love.  They  were  to  finish,  together,  their  plans 
for  flight. 

Nevertheless,  when,  at  a  little  after  ten  o'clock,  Vir- 
ginia found  herself  alone  in  the  darkened  room,  seated 
beside  the  window,  to  wait,  her  thoughts  were  none  of 
them  of  flight  or  plans  for  flight,  but  all  of  the  man,  of 
her  lover,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  nearly  twelve  end- 
less weeks.  Nor  was  she,  even  in  that  thought,  perfectly 
happy.  For  solitude  had  preyed  on  her,  had  unsteadied 
her  nerves,  till  she  lived  in  a  constant,  feverish  resentment 
17  249 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


against  all  things,  even  Atkinson,  who  had  waited  to  be 
summoned  to  her  in  her  loneliness. 

Later,  as  she  leaned  forward  toward  the  dark,  un- 
shaded window,  staring  out  upon  the  thin-mooned  night, 
a  kind  of  tranquility,  engendered  by  the  immovable  peace 
of  Nature,  stole  upon  her.  She  could  see  the  broad  lawn, 
with  its  streaks  of  snow ;  the  scattering  orchard  of  bare- 
branched  trees ;  even  the  pale  streak  of  half-frozen  river, 
with  its  fringe  of  willows  in  a  shadowy  blur.  And,  over 
all,  arched  the  faintly-spangled  dome,  so  vast,  so  infinitely 
high,  and  calm !  And  as  she  watched,  the  fever  of  the  day 
was  cooled  within  her,  and  she  was  moved  to  wonder  at 
the  reason  for  the  infinite  without,  the  turmoil  here  within. 
It  seemed  to  her,  now,  as  if  she  could  foresee,  quite  clearly, 
the  final  breaking  up  of  the  wreck  of  her  married  life. 
At  the  same  time  she  knew  that,  placed  again  at  the  be- 
ginning, had  no  detail  of  the  circumstance  been  changed, 
all  would  have  come  about  just  as  before.  For  to  the 
young,  ignorant,  over-refined  child  that  she  had  been 
as  Virginia  Merrill,  happiness  alone  with  Charles  Van 
Studdiford  would  have  been  an  impossibility.  Now,  in 
the  light  of  bitter  knowledge,  even  to-night,  in  her  over- 
weening passion  for  another  man,  Virginia  was  able  to 
see  that,  as  men  went,  Charles  was  not  bad:  was  even 
very  possible:  might,  perhaps,  with  her  out  of  the  way, 
make  some  good  woman  sincerely  happy.  And,  not 
strangely,  perhaps,  this  thought  was  scarcely  as  welcome 
to  Virginia  as  it  should  have  been.  Self  was  uppermost 
with  her  still. 

As  she  dreamed,  here  at  the  window,  Time  crept  on 
250 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


faster  than  she  knew.  And  she  was  scarcely  chilly,  in 
her  lacy  gown,  when  Lucy  came  in  again,  whispering  that 
the  Master  had  come  upstairs,  and  was  now  in  his  room. 
Trembling  and  cold,  Virginia  crept  into  bed.  There  was 
just  one  danger  now ;  and,  because  of  the  havoc  it  would 
bring  about,  it  seemed  probable  in  spite  of  its  unusualness. 
But  the  minutes  passed,  and  Charles  gave  no  sign. 
Finally,  at  a  quarter  to  eleven,  Lucy  returned,  to  say  that 
the  last  light  was  out.  Charles  must  be  in  bed.  Fifteen 
minutes,  perhaps  half  an  hour,  more,  that  all  might  sleep ; 
and  then — the  signal  that  should  bring  Philip  to  her! 
Virginia  had  left  her  bed  again,  and,  by  light  of  the  night 
lamp,  began  to  rearrange  her  tea-gown  of  lace  and  black 
velvet,  and  to  smooth  her  shining  bronze  hair. 

Meantime,  always,  Charles  was  in  bed. — Ah!  Was 
he  ?  True,  he  had  gone  to  his  room  at  half  past  ten,  and 
remained  there  the  length  of  time  that  he  usually  took  to 
undress.  He  did,  at  once,  take  off  his  shoes,  and  after 
that  pottered  about  at  his  chiffonier,  used  his  brushes, 
even  washed  himself.  But  his  final  movement  was  not 
that  of  a  bed-goer ;  for,  from  a  drawer  in  his  escritoire, 
he  took  a  silver-mounted  pistol,  which  he  slipped  into  his 
coat  pocket. 

After  this,  for  five  minutes,  he  sat  impatiently,  watch 
in  hand,  his  right  foot  tapping  the  floor.  The  enforced 
inaction  took  all  of  his  self-control,  all  his  nerve  force, 
and  brought  the  unstudied  tumult  of  passions  within  him 
to  a  white  heat.  It  was  an  unspeakable  relief  when  he 
found,  at  last,  that  he  had  been  in  the  room  full  twenty 
minutes,  and  was  free  to  act.    Moving  noiselessly  in  his 

251 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


stocking-feet,  he  turned  off  his  Hght,  and,  in  another 
moment,  was  at  the  door.  This  he  opened,  carefully,  and 
started  at  the  squeak  it  gave.  Inch  by  inch  he  pushed  it, 
till  there  was  room  to  get  into  the  hall  and  begin  his 
silent  progress  through  the  darkness  to  the  stairs,  and 
down.  To  Charles,  unaccustomed  to  such  mode  of 
progression,  and  clumsy  enough  at  it,  the  way  seemed 
extremely  long.  In  fact,  as  he  muttered,  beneath  his 
breath,  he  should  never  have  recognized  the  hall  and 
staircase  for  his  own.  But  never  had  he  been  so  keenly 
alive  to  their  angles  as  to-night.  They  were  two  among 
the  many  things  besides  plows  that  Van  Studdiford  had 
recently  begun  to  observe. 

It  was  perhaps  five  minutes  from  the  time  he  left  his 
room  before  he  entered  the  library,  and  sank  down  in  the 
great  chair  that  had  grown  to  fit  his  body.  He  gave  a  long 
sigh.  At  the  same  time,  instinctively,  his  hand  sought 
his  vest  pocket.  It  was  withdrawn,  empty.  He  must 
not  smoke.  He  must  not  have  a  light:  must  not  even 
so  much  as  strike  a  match  in  a  room  visible  from  the 
lawn.  This  last  thought,  however,  brought  a  sugges- 
tion also;  and  he  went  to  the  windows,  raised  one  of 
them  a  little,  and  lifted  every  shade  till  the  blackness 
within  was  pervaded  by  that  faint  night-light,  the  dif- 
ference of  which  from  absolute  darkness  is  so  rarely 
appreciated.  After  this,  Van  Studdiford  went  to  the 
other  door  of  the  room,  near  the  side  entrance  where  he 
had  seen  Lucy  at  work.  This  door  he  opened  wide. 
Lastly  he  reseated  himself  in  his  chair,  knowing  that  his 
vigil  had  now  really  begun. 

252 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Van  Studdiford  dared  neither  smoke  nor  read.  In 
revenge  his  thoughts,  sharpened  by  an  unusual  amount 
of  black  coffee  and  the  physical  tenseness  of  extreme 
anxiety,  rushed  upon  him  and  carried  him  by  storm.  Like 
Georgiana  Dupre  in  Chicago,  Hke  Virginia  upstairs, 
the  mighty  significance  of  the  situation  was  borne  in  upon 
him  for  the  first  time.  That  repressed  rage  which 
had  lain  in  his  heart  for  a  week  rose  higher,  and  gripped 
him,  till,  in  the  gloom,  his  face  showed  purple.  His  wife 
— Virginia — that  pretty,  scornful,  indifferent  child, — not 
yet  twenty-two  years  old — she,  she,  waiting,  above  him, 
for  a  man  not  himself:  for  Atkinson,  his  cousin!  His, 
Charles  Van  Studdiford's  wife,  unfaithful,  actually  con- 
templating elopement  ?  Good  God !  What  had  he  done 
to  deserve  it?  Was  it  comprehensible  that  such  a  thing 
could  be  ?  Charles  clenched  his  hands,  but  knew  neither 
that,  nor  the  fact  that  his  brow  was  dripping  with  sweat. 
Minute  by  minute  his  fury  expanded,  till  at  last  it  was 
quite  inarticulate.  Virginia — Philip — revenge — the  pistol 
— were  mingled  inextricably  in  his  chaotic  thoughts.  He 
did  not  notice  the  faint  shadow  on  the  lawn  outside,  born 
of  a  light  set  on  the  sill  of  the  room  above.  But — ^hark ! — 
through  the  open  crack  of  his  own  window  came  a  sound. 
He  heard,  distinctly,  a  thin,  clear  whistle  lifted  in  the  first 
bars  of  the  chorus  from  Carmen : 

"Tor-Ae-ador  enga-a-arde!  Tor-A^-ador!  Tor-A^- 
ador!" 

Instantly  he  was  roused.  His  thoughts  scattered 
themselves  to  the  winds,  and  he  himself,  once  more  calm 
and  restrained,  crept  noiselessly  into  the  shadow  of  the 

253 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


fire-place,  whence,  through  the  open  door,  he  could  see 
the  outside  entrance  and  all  that  was  to  happen  there. 
Distinctly,  with  his  sharpened  senses,  he  could  hear  steps 
on  the  veranda,  outside.  Then  these  were  still ;  and  there 
was  a  wait,  longer,  far  longer,  to  Van  Studdiford  in  the 
library,  than  to  Philip  without.  Finally,  the  faintest 
gleam  of  light  stole  into  the  hall.  It  grew  brighter  and 
brighter,  till  it  culminated  in  the  appearance  of  Lucy, 
trimly  dressed,  but  shoeless,  carrying  a  small  lamp.  This 
she  set  down  upon  the  floor  near  the  library  entrance ;  and 
the  watcher  was  suddenly  in  a  panic  lest  some  of  it  should 
reach  and  disclose  him.  But  Lucy,  secure  in  her  familiar 
task,  never  looked  around.  Noiselessly  and  deftly  she 
turned  the  key,  unfastened  the  bolt,  and  opened  the  well- 
oiled  door. 

Immediately  a  great  gust  of  chilly  air  came  through, 
and  the  lamp-flame  wavered.  Then  Atkinson,  well  muf- 
fled but  shivering,  nevertheless,  from  his  long  wait,  en- 
tered, hurriedly.  There  was  a  low-spoken  word  of  greet- 
ing from  Lucy,  and,  hearing  it,  he  suddenly  stooped  to 
her,  and  dropped  a  kiss  upon  her  check :  a  kiss  that  served 
his  purpose  infinitely  better  than  the  gold  that  he  had  not. 
Then,  the  maid  with  a  blush,  and  Philip  with  his  old, 
habitual,  well-satisfied  smile,  were  gone.  The  light  from 
the  lamp  they  carried  grew  fainter  and  died  away.  Pres- 
ently Charles  was  alone  again,  in  the  darkness. 

He  emerged,  leisurely,  from  his  hiding-place,  and  vent- 
ured on  a  luxury,  now,  in  the  way  of  lighting  an  orna- 
mental candle  that  stood,  in  a  Tiffany  candlestick,  on 
his  mantel-piece.    With  this  in  his  left  hand  he  proceeded 

254 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


to  the  side  door,  shot  the  open  bolt  into  place,  turned  the 
key  in  the  lock,  and,  after  a  second's  hesitation,  put  it  into 
his  pocket.  Then  he  took  out  his  pistol,  and,  setting  the 
candle  on  the  floor,  examined  it  carefully,  saw  that  it  was 
loaded  in  both  barrels,  and  returned  it  to  its  place.  It 
was  at  this  moment  that  there  crept  into  his  pale  eyes 
a  gleam  such  as  no  man  had  ever  seen  in  them  before. 
It  was  the  look  of  one  who  contemplates  murder,  in  the 
deep-gripping  fury  of  his  outraged  manhood. 

Acting  now  quite  blindly,  on  the  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment, Charles,  his  candle  shaded  by  his  hand,  walked 
across  the  hall  and  down  the  passage  leading  to  the  back 
stairs.  At  the  foot  of  these  he  paused.  Above  him,  all 
was  still  and  dark.  Philip  had  safely  reached  his  goal. 
Blowing  out  the  wavering  flame  Charles  crept  up  the 
steps  till  he  was  at  the  top.  And,  because  he  no  longer 
cared  whether  he  made  sounds  or  not,  he  was  as  noiseless 
as  Lucy  in  her  lightest  movements.  On  the  top  step, 
finally,  he  sat  down;  and,  with  the  pistol  on  his  knees, 
began  another  period  of  waiting. 

For  a  long  time,  more  than  an  hour,  he  sat  there, 
scarcely  thinking,  only  fostering  the  subconscious  rage 
that  lay  deeper  than  thought.  But,  by  degrees,  in  spite 
of  himself,  the  still  darkness  had  its  way,  and  imagination 
began  to  paint  vivid  pictures  on  the  velvet  background  of 
the  night.  He  communed  with  himself,  sternly  con- 
testing reason.  It  had  been  his  unconsidered  intention 
to  shoot  Atkinson  down  as  he  came  from  Virginia's  room. 
That,  surely,  was  his  reason  for  sitting  here,  pistol  on 
knee  ?    "  Certainly,"  answered  his  other  self,    "  Atkinson 

255 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


must  be  killed.  How  better  than  here?"  "Ah!  But 
here,  in  this  hall,  there  will  be  a  swarm  of  servants  down 
on  you  in  five  seconds."  Charles  paused,  uneasily,  and 
Reason  continued :  "  You  will  be  charged,  at  least,  with 
manslaughter.  It  may  be  justifiable  homicide.  Yes,  any 
jury  would  give  you  that.  But  the  thing  will  have  to  be 
tried.  Meantime  you,  and  especially  your  wife,  will  be 
marked  for  all  time.  And  there  are  facts  in  your  life  that 
will  surely  be  dragged  forth  into  the  light  of  day  as 

evidence  against  you.    The  newspapers " 

The  voice  of  the  darkness  did  not  need  to  finish.  Set- 
ting his  teeth.  Van  Studdiford  rose  again  and  retraced  his 
steps,  carefully,  to  the  library.  But  it  was  with  a  sense  of 
injustice  that  he  did  so ;  and  more  than  ever  strong  in  film 
lay  the  determination  that  this  night,  in  spite  of  appear- 
ances, should  Philip  answer  for  his  work.  If  the  thing 
ended  in  open  scandal,  it  must.  But,  since  there  was  yet 
time,  much  time,  at  his  disposal,  Charles  began  to  perceive 
that,  with  careful  thought,  a  more  subtle  issue  than  the  one 
he  had  intended  might  be  successfully  planned.  It  might 
be  possible  to  put  Philip  out  of  the  way  and,  at  the  same 
time,  deny  the  great  Press  its  usual  prey.  That  would, 
indeed,  be  a  master-stroke  worthy  of  much  meditation. 
And  thus,  at  a  quarter  past  midnight.  Van  Studdiford 
found  himself  at  his  desk  again,  sleep  quite  banished,  and 
thought,  summoned  by  a  candle  and  reckless  tobacco,  set 
to  work  under  a  sane,  relentless  direction.  From  time  to 
time  he  could  distinguish  soft  footsteps  passing  and  re- 
passing overhead.  And  these  seemed  always  to  goad 
him  to  deeper  consideration.    At  the  same  time  he  per- 

256 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


ceived,  with  some  faint  satisfaction,  that  for  the  two 
upstairs  there  was  also  to  be  no  rest  to-night. 

Charles  read  well.  In  Virginia's  room  there  was  at 
first  little  peace,  little  joy,  after  the  embraces  of  greeting. 
She  and  Philip  both  realized  that  serious  facts  were  to  be 
met  and  wrestled  with.  Immediate  wishes  must  be  set 
aside;  for  their  affair  had  gone  on  much  too  far  in  its 
present,  difficult  state.  Nothing,  now,  was  permanent 
with  them.  Everything  must  be  made  so.  Yet,  after  all, 
one  great  thing  had  been  accomplished.  One  week 
before,  they  had  been  separated  by  two  thousand  miles. 
To-night,  they  were  together,  and  alone.  Neither  had 
any  suspicion  of  danger.  Neither  believed  Time  to  be 
pressing,  save  as  their  own  desires  for  the  future  made 
it  so. 

First,  then,  came  the  little  supper  that  had  been  ar- 
ranged by  Lucy  in  the  boudoir.  Of  this  Philip,  at  least, 
stood  in  real  need;  for  he  had  had  nothing  since  that 
hasty  tea  with  his  sister  at  half  past  three  in  the  after- 
noon. After  two  glasses  of  haut  sauterne  had  banished 
his  chill  and  warmed  his  blood,  he  became  cheerful,  san- 
guine, and  eager  for  consultation.  Minute  by  minute  Vir- 
ginia gazed  at  him,  impressing  his  beloved  image  on  her 
heart,  by  his  presence  finally  banishing  that  ghost  of  lonely 
melancholy  that  had  for  so  long  haunted  her  rooms.  She, 
too,  as  she  pretended  to  eat,  became  gayer,  lighter  of 
heart,  than  Philip  himself  had  often  seen  her.  And  her 
smiles  were  so  bright,  her  low  laughter  so  musical,  that 
presently,  behold !  all  the  purpose  of  the  meeting  was  for- 
gotten,  and  the  two  sat   in   Virginia's   room   without 

257 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


thought  of  time.  Then  the  light  burned  again,  and  Vir- 
ginia unlocked  her  desk  and  began  to  exhibit  its  contents 
to  Philip.  Besides  a  few  letters  from  her  Mother  she  had 
gathered  together  everything  of  hers,  even  her  wedding 
pearls,  that  could  possibly  be  converted  into  money.  As 
she  laid  before  him  this  little  collection,  Philip's  face 
turned  grave  and  cold.  There  was  not  much;  and  only 
a  few  things  were  of  real  value.  But  the  pearls  and  three 
diamond  stars,  at  least,  contained  perfect  stones;  and, 
though  Philip  hated  himself  for  such  a  plan,  he  knew 
that  the  rejection  of  any  possible  source  of  money  would, 
in  their  case,  be  folly.  For,  until  they  had  settled  down 
and  he  could  find  employment  somewhere,  they  would 
need  every  penny  that  could  be  obtained.  And,  in  any 
case,  he  swore  to  himself,  Virginia's  jewels  should  go  only 
for  her  own  comfort. 

Their  talk  was  serious  enough  now :  almost  sad. 
Leaving  the  desk,  they  presently  found  themselves  seated 
on  a  low  couch,  their  hands  clasped,  their  heads  bent  very 
near  each  other.  As  they  looked  and  talked,  in  whispers, 
Atkinson  felt  the  faint,  familiar  perfume  of  Virginia's 
laces  steal  to  his  brain,  in  slow  intoxication.  And  his 
nearness,  the  occasional  warmth  of  his  breath  on  her 
cheek,  brought  heavy  throbs  to  Virginia's  heart.  Both 
of  them  believed  their  self-repression  to  be  perfect;  and 
neither  had  any  idea  of  the  length  of  time  that  slipped 
by  in  the  delicate  trivialities  that  had  always  played  so 
large  a  part  in  the  fascination  of  their  feeling  for  each 
other. 

By  slow  degrees,  their  talk  left  the  business  of  their 
258 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


proposed  flight  and  its  necessary  details,  and  returned 
to  the  old,  familiar  topic  of  the  misery  of  separation 
that  each  had  endured.  It  was  a  subject  of  which  they 
never  tired;  because  it  was  the  strongest  emotion  either 
had  ever  known,  and  from  it  each  had  suffered,  keenly, 
and  in  the  same  way.  After  a  time,  however,  as  the  night 
waned  and  the  hour  of  lowest  vitality  fell  upon  them, 
this  topic,  too,  was  dropped,  and  they  fell  into  inco- 
herences. Virginia  knew  only  that  she  was  in  the  haven 
of  Philip's  arms.  Atkinson  gave  himself  up,  gladly,  to 
the  night.  So,  at  last,  there  ensued  a  period  of  blank- 
ness,  from  which  both  were  startled  by  a  touch  on  the 
shoulder,  and  Lucy's  voice  whispering  anxiously: 

"  Madam ! — Mr.  Atkinson !    It's  five  o'clock  1 " 

They  stared  at  each  other,  a  little  wildly,  in  the  light 
of  Lucy's  candle.  They  had  slept! — On  this  night  of 
nights  they  had  dared  to  sleep! 

Before  they  had  come  to  themselves  again,  Lucy, 
leaving  her  candle  in  place  of  the  burnt-out  lamp,  tact- 
fully crept  away;  and  Philip  was  alone  to  watch  the 
grief  and  pain  and  dread  steal  back  to  Virginia's  eyes. 

"  Oh !  You  must  go ! — And  nothing  is  settled !  "  she 
said,  pitifully. 

"  Beloved !  I  am  here  for  you.  I  will  come  every 
night  till  it  is  all  arranged." 

"  Will  you  come  to-morrow — ^no — ^to-night  ?  " 

He  bowed  his  head. 

"  And  will  it  be  just  the  same  as  this  time: — the  same 
sigfnals?" 

"  Yes." 

259 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  But  now — it  is  so  late — so  early — Ah !  You  must 
go! 

He  caught  her  into  his  arms  and  held  her  close 
through  the  kiss  he  gave  her.  "  That  till  I  come  again," 
he  whispered.  "  My  beloved,  though  I  should  die  to- 
night my  soul  would  be  yours  and  would  not  rest  until 
yours  found  it  at  the  last !  " 

Shivering  slightly,  she  put  her  hand  over  the  lips 
that  had  spoken  so  to  no  other  woman  in  his  long,  lover's 
life.  Catching  the  hand  in  his  own,  he  bent  to  her  again. 
Once  more ;  and  then — then  he  had  taken  up  hat  and  coat, 
and  was  putting  them  on. 

"  Are  you  going  back  to  the  city  this  morning  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Yes.  It  will  be  better,  dear ;  for  I  cannot  hide  my- 
self in  Grangeford.  But  I  will  come  to  you  as  I  did  yes- 
terday afternoon,  by  the  four-thirty." 

"  And  now " 

"  And  now,  sweetheart,  good-bye." 

"  No !  Oh,  no,  Philip !  "  She  was  in  his  arms  again, 
and  had  laid  her  cheek  against  his  before  she  could  smile, 
faintly.    "  Not  good-bye,  to  me.    Just — good-morning !  " 

At  this  he  laughed  a  little ;  and  they  went,  arm  in  arm, 
to  the  door  of  Lucy's  room,  and  there,  with  a  last  clasp, 
a  last  kiss,  a  last  smile,  parted. 

Philip,  perfectly  familiar  with  his  way,  and  with  entire 
assurance  of  safety,  crept  noiselessly  through  patient 
Lucy's  room,  through  the  passage  and  down  the  back 
stairs.  As  he  proceeded,  he  began  to  hum,  under  his 
breath,  a  little  tune :  his   favorite,   "  Chanfes,   Chantez, 

260 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


ma  belle! "  so  confident  was  he,  so  young,  so  much  a 
lover.  And  finally,  in  the  darkness,  he  reached  the  side 
door,  his  accustomed  exit,  which  he  knew  had  been  left 
open  for  him.  He  turned  the  handle  and  pulled. — 
The  door  was  locked! — Ah!  It  was  the  bolt.  After 
all,  Lucy  had  pushed  it  to,  from  habit  or  precaution. 
He  shot  it  back.  Now — Again,  the  door  was  locked. 
Philip  felt,  impatiently,  for  the  key.  It  was  gone.  His 
heart  suddenly  gave  one,  violent  leap.  Then,  on  the  in- 
stant, a  dozen  lights  went  up  in  the  library  behind  him, 
and  Philip  found  himself  staring  into  the  pale,  cold  eyes 
of  his  cousin,  Charles. 


261 


CHAPTER  XVI 

For  one  moment — a  moment  in  which  Philip  lived 
through  all  the  past,  accepted  the  present,  and  surmised 
the  future,  there  was  a  silence.  Then  Van  Studdiford 
said,  in  a  low,  haggard  tone : 

"  Come  in — here." 

Philip  obeyed  him  at  once,  with  what  courtesy  he 
could  summon  to  his  manner;  and,  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  library.  Van  Studdiford  shut  the  door 
behind  him,  not  loudly,  but  with  soft  precision.  Then 
he  walked  forward  into  the  room,  and  they  found  them- 
selves facing  each  other  on  opposite  sides  of  the  table. 
There  was  a  brief  pause,  during  which  the  muscles  of 
both  men  stiffened.  Philip's  fatigue  dropped  away  from 
him  and  was  forgotten ;  but,  while  he  stared  at  his  cousin, 
there  was  no  definite  thought  in  his  mind.  Subconsciously 
he  prepared  himself  to  meet  Charles'  will. 

It  was  Charles  who  spoke  first,  breaking  silence  with 
three  words,  spoken  hoarsely. 

"  You — damned  coward !  " 

Philip  bent  his  head  for  an  instant.  Then  he  lifted 
it  again,  and  answered,  quietly :  "  You  lie." 

"  Blackguard !  How  dare  you  so  much  as  lift  your 
head  to  me  ?  " 

Philip's  lip  curled,  and  the  gleam  in  his  eyes  was 
262 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


dangerous  as  he  rejoined :  "  I  dare  many  things ;  as  per- 
haps you  know." 

Charles'  face  deepened  in  ugliness  and  became  evil 
to  look  upon.  His  teeth  flashed  from  under  his  upper 
lip,  as  he  said,  with  a  trembling  attempt  at  calm :  "  Care- 
ful— you  fool. — I — I  am  going  to  kill  you." 

There  was  a  little,  quick  whir.  Then  each  man  found 
himself  facing  a  pistol.  Philip's  had  been  drawn  perhaps 
a  shade  the  quicker ;  but  it  was  Philip  who  first  laid  his 
down,  and  let  his  eyes  meet  Charles'  more  honestly.  "  Do 
you  want  to  have  murder  done  here,  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  murder." 

"  Possibly  not. — But  a  jury " 

Charles  threw  his  pistol  to  the  table,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment turned  away,  Atkinson  remaining  just  where  he 
was  till  his  cousin  faced  round  again  with  a  new  look 
on  his  face. 

"  See  here ! — I've  not  planned  and  schemed  for  days, 
I've  not  waited  in  this  room  for  nearly  six  hours,  to  stand 
up  opposite  you  and  call  you  names.  It's  about  a  week 
since  I  made  certain  what  you  are.  Since  that  time  I've 
learned  everything: — everything,  mind  you.  You  have 
deliberately  dishonored  my  house,  and  you've  got  to  an- 
swer for  it.    Where  will  you  fight  me  ?  " 

Philip  shrugged.  "What  century  are  we  in?"  he 
asked. 

"  My  century." 

"Then  you'd  better  decide.  If  I'm  at  your  service, 
it's  complaisance,  please  understand.  I  imagine  that  I 
could  obtain  some  species  of  protection." 

263 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Charles'  face  grew  mottled,  white  and  brick-red,  and 
he  glared  at  the  other,  savagely.  "  You  miserable — 
Bah !  "  He  turned  away  again,  sharply,  and,  for  a  minute 
or  two,  appeared  to  be  thinking  again.  At  last,  when 
Philip's  attention  was  beginning  to  wane,  Charles  leaned 
forward  to  the  table,  took  up  his  pistol,  and  held  it  in  a 
steady  grip. 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  bam,"  said  he. 

Philip  opened  his  eyes,  but  said  nothing  as  he  pre- 
ceded Van  Studdiford  into  the  hall,  where  Charles  donned 
coat  and  hat,  and  unlocked  the  side  door.  Philip  had  one 
moment  in  which  to  listen,  intently,  for  some  slightest 
sound  from  above.  But  none  came.  Virginia,  uncon- 
scious still  of  any  danger,  was  sleeping,  soundly,  in  her 
bed. 

The  two  men  were  out,  now,  in  the  freezing  darkness, 
making  their  way  to  the  barn:  Philip  slightly  ahead, 
Charles  preserving  the  distance  between  them.  Neither 
one  perceived,  in  the  air,  the  indescribable  fragrance  of 
approaching  dawn,  which  even  a  Northern  February  can- 
not freeze  away.  Once  inside  the  barn,  when  Charles  had 
lighted  the  two  hanging  lamps,  Philip  looked  for  a  pos- 
sibility of  immediate  conflict.  But  Van  Studdiford  was 
in  the  stalls,  and  presently  led  Lightning  out,  with  half 
her  harness  on.  At  this  indication,  Philip,  beginning  to 
understand,  wheeled  the  runabout  from  under  its  cover 
and  ran  the  shafts  into  the  back-straps.  Then  he  fell  to 
work  buckling  and  fastening,  till,  in  three  minutes,  the 
conveyance  was  ready  and  Lightning,  eager  to  be  out, 
pawing  the  floor. 

264 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Before  either  had  entered  the  runabout,  however, 
there  came  a  sleepy  voice  from  the  stairs  that  led  to  the 
grooms'  quarters. 

"Who's  there?"  it  cried.     "That  you,  Jim?" 

Charles  held  up  a  warning  finger  for  Philip  not  to 
move.  "  It's  all  right,  Sefton,"  said  he.  "  I'm  taking 
Lightning  out  on  some  early  business.  Shall  be  back  in 
an  hour." 

"  Oh !  Very  good,  Sir !  "  And  the  steps  creaked  as 
the  man,  too  suddenly  roused  to  wonder  at  the  strange- 
ness of  his  Master's  having  work  to  do  at  this  hour, 
returned  to  his  bed. 

Charles  stood  now  at  the  sliding  door.  "  Get  in,"  he 
said,  shortly,  to  Philip ;  and,  as  Atkinson  obeyed,  he  rolled 
the  door  back,  freed  the  horse  from  the  ceiling  rope,  and 
sprang  into  the  runabout,  grasping  the  reins  just  as  Light- 
ning, true  to  her  nature,  sprang  forward. 

It  was  six  o'clock ;  and  the  dawn,  gray,  cold,  dreary, 
was  lifting  itself  above  the  Eastern  horizon.  As  they 
sped  along  the  gravel  road  toward  the  public  way  the 
still  house  loomed,  like  a  cloud-shadow,  through  the  mist ; 
and  Atkinson,  looking  up  at  it,  shivered,  and  drew  his 
coat  tight  round  him.  In  that  instant,  for  the  first  time, 
a  quick  spasm  of  fear  darted  through  him;  and  neither 
reason  nor  anger  would  dispel  it.  He  wondered,  sadly, 
if  Virginia,  above,  could  hear  the  horse's  feet.  Was  she 
alarmed?  Alas!  Virginia  had  already  passed  into 
the  transitional  sleep.  Atkinson  had  left  her,  as  he  him- 
self now  surmised,  forever. 

They  passed  into  the  James  Road  and  turned  to  the 
18  265 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


South,  sharply.  Lightning  was  excited  and  Charles  had 
enough  to  do  to  keep  her  in  the  road  and  give  her  a  hint 
of  the  control  he  must  keep  over  her.  The  deadly  fatigue 
of  twenty-four  hours  of  sleepless  excitement  was  stealing 
over  Philip  again.  Once  he  yawned :  not  at  all  from 
bravado,  but  out  of  sheer,  overpowering  weariness.  Dully 
he  watched  the  sullen  sky,  which  grew  no  lighter,  seeming 
to  reject  the  day.  And  dully  he  wondered  how,  when  they 
had  reached  a  suitable  spot,  Charles  would  keep  his  horse 
from  running  away  while  they  fought  their  duel.  It 
seemed  to  him  now,  however,  that  nothing  really  mattered. 
Virginia  was  a  fair  radiance  in  the  background :  Geor- 
giana  still  further  in  the  past.  All  the  present  was  gray. 
But  the  future  lay  deep-shrouded  in  Night :  a  night  that 
seemed  to  promise  him,  for  a  little  time,  rest  and  peace. 
If  Philip  had  sunk  into  apathy,  Charles  had  risen  to 
the  heights.  The  flame  of  his  anger  was  burning  clearly, 
and  by  it  he  was  working  to  an  end.  He  had  started  out 
with  the  idea  that  Philip  had  surmised :  that  of  finding  a 
suitable  grove  for  an  unwitnessed  duel.  But,  by  degrees, 
he  began  to  perceive  another  possibility,  which  was  de- 
pendent entirely  upon  accident  or  Providence,  Half  a 
mile  away  the  Rock  Island  tracks  crossed  the  James  Road 
in  a  very  dangerous  curve.  Along  those  tracks,  the  Early 
Mail  was  due  to  run  at  a  few  seconds — or  minutes,  after 
six  o'clock.  Further  than  this  Charles  did  not  get. 
Later,  in  recalling  the  events  of  that  hour,  his  idea  was 
remembered  as  having  been  hazily  indefinite.  It  seemed 
only  a  premonition:  perhaps  a  kind  of  fore-ordination. 
At  any  rate,  no  definite  plan  was  made.     Six  minutes 

266 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


after  leaving  the  barn  they  were  racing  down  the  hill 
that  led  to  the  tracks.  The  crossing  was  so  dangerous, 
and  so  near  a  large  town,  that  the  railroad  company, 
after  many  injury  suits,  had  erected  a  signal  station 
there,  and  there  was  a  switch  a  hundred  yards  down 
the  line.  Now,  as  the  runabout  approached,  Charles 
heard  and  saw  everything  as  in  a  dream.  There  came 
the  near  shriek  of  a  locomotive;  the  hoarse  shout  and 
wild  wavings  of  the  switchman ;  then  Philip's  hands  were 
suddenly  on  the  reins,  and  his  face  went  deathly  white  as 
Charles,  in  a  kind  of  intoxication  of  fear,  shouted : 

"  Well,  it's  fair  and  square !  An  equal  chance,  you 
see!" 

Then — there  was  a  fearful  lurch,  a  shock,  and,  an  in- 
stant later,  the  grinding  of  brakes  on  the  train. 

The  man  in  the  signal-house  had,  from  his  vantage- 
point,  seen  all  there  was  to  see  in  the  dreadful  gray- 
ness:  how  the  man  nearest  the  engine  had  been  tossed 
thirty  feet,  to  the  top  of  the  high,  right  bank :  how  Light- 
ning, freed  from  the  broken  shafts,  had  careered  madly 
up  the  road  and  disappeared  among  the  trees:  how  the 
runabout  lay,  a  little  pile  of  sticks,  somewhere  under  the 
train:  and,  lastly,  how  the  other  man,  knocked  to  the 
track,  and  carried  along  before  the  cow-catcher,  was  now 
lying,  a  bloody  and  mangled  heap,  in  front  of  the 
motionless  train. 

Scarcely  three  minutes  from  the  second  of  the  tragedy 
a  little  knot  of  men,  a  fireman,  the  conductor,  two  brake- 
men,  and  two  or  three  early  passengers,  had  gathered 
on  the  track,  and  were  presently  led,  by  the  switchman, 

267 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


up  the  bank  to  the  spot  where  the  first  man  had  been 
thrown. 

"  If  they're  either  of  'em  Hving,  this  is  him.  T'other 
ain't  got  no  chance  in  the  world,"  he  explained,  as  the 
party  scrambled  up  toward  the  motionless  figure.  The 
switchman  was  the  first  to  reach  his  side.  As  the  others 
came  up,  and  halted,  and  bent  over  him,  there  was  a 
sudden  exclamation. 

"  By  God !  This  is  Van  Studdiford,  the  big  manufac- 
turer ! "  cried  the  conductor.  The  trainmen  looked  at 
each  other  aghast.  This  would  mean  an  investigation — 
enormous  damages — some  discharges,  perhaps. 

"  They  were  a-comin'  like  Hell  down  that  there  road. 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  't  'ad  been  a  runaway.  Anyhow, 
I  yelled  at  'em,  'n'  shouted,  *n'  waved,  an'  they  gave  no 
more  heed  'n  'sif  they'd  'a'  been  deef  'n'  dumb. — Ye  seen 
me  yellin',  Hal!— I " 

"  Here.  We  must  get  him  out  of  this,"  interrupted 
the  conductor,  savagely;  for  his  train  was  losing  ill- 
afforded  time. 

A  bottle  of  whiskey  was  produced,  and  a  good  deal 
of  it  poured  down  Charles'  throat.  Then  began  an  awk- 
ward attempt  at  chafing  and  slapping,  which  presently 
resulted  in  a  groan  of  pain,  as  the  stunned  man  opened 
his  eyes. 

"  What  the  Devil— Oh !  "  he  said,  faintly.  "  Where's 
the  other  man  ? — Where's  Atkinson  ?  " 

"  He's  down  yonder,  on  the  track,  I  guess,  Mister," 
returned  the  switchman.  "  I'm  jest  a-goin'  down  to 
him." 

268 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Charles  staggered  immediately  to  his  feet.  "  I'll  go 
with  you,"  he  said. 

"No!  No!  You  just  sit  still  where  you  axe.  We'll  do 
what  we  can." 

"  Let  go  of  me,  you  fool !  Can't  you  see  my  shoulder's 
broken? — I  say  I've  got  to  get  down  there. — Here,  help 
me  on  the  left  side." 

Wondering  at  his  will  and  his  strength,  they  let 
him  have  his  way,  at  once.  And  presently,  a  fearful, 
straggling  little  group,  they  surrounded  that  dreadful 
heap. 

Wonder  of  wonders!  It  was  still  alive.  Charles, 
shuddering,  saw  an  agonized  face  raised  to  his,  saw 
Philip's  lips  moving,  and,  inspired  by  pity  and  a  great 
surge  of  remorse,  he  knelt,  and  tried  to  smooth  the 
strained  brow  of  the  dying  man. 

"  Charles,"  came  the  faint,  flickering  whisper, 
"  Charles — Virginia — is — innocent !  " 

And  with  that  single  moment  of  heroic  perjury, 
Philip,  hanging  on  it  to  help  him  upward,  groaned  and 
let  his  life  go  out. 

Van  Studdiford,  weak  and  shaken  and  suffering,  knelt 
in  vain,  wildly  imploring  some  sort  of  forgiveness  for  the 
"  accident."  To  the  men  around  him  it  was  natural 
enough ;  but,  very  soon  seeing  that  no  human  voice  could 
now  avail  with  Atkinson,  they  drew  Van  Studdiford  on 
one  side,  and,  while  the  brakemen  covered  the  body  with 
a  coat  and  lifted  it  from  the  track,  conductor  and  en- 
g^eer  held  consultation  together. 

They  had  broken  the  shoulder  of  a  millionaire :  a  man 
269 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


whose  freight  was  of  the  utmost  importance  to  their  road ; 
and  they  had  killed  his  cousin.  It  behooved  them,  there- 
fore, to  do  something.  The  Grangeford  station  was  not 
two  miles  back;  and  at  this  hour  the  road  was  perfectly 
safe.  They  must,  then,  back  the  two  of  them,  living  and 
dead,  into  the  town. 

This  decision  was  speedily  reported  to  Van  Studdiford, 
who  accepted  the  favor  thankfully.  Had  he  been  in  con- 
dition, he  would  have  started  out  at  once,  on  foot,  after 
Lightning.  But  he  was  suffering  greatly  from  his  shoul- 
der. He  was  bruised  all  over,  and  shocked  and  shaken. 
And  he  was  literally  sick  with  the  thought  of  what  he 
had  done.  The  horse,  therefore,  might  go  where  she 
chose.  He  climbed  slowly  aboard  the  train,  lay  back  in 
a  night  chair  on  his  uninjured  side,  and  accepted  some 
more  whiskey  and  a  biscuit  from  the  conductor,  whom 
he  then  questioned  as  to  the  probable  time  of  the  inquest, 
and  how  complicated  the  proceedings  were  likely  to  be, 
till  they  ran  into  the  station  at  Grangeford. 

Here  the  train,  after  a  short  wait  to  report  and  receive 
orders,  went  on  again,  leaving  Charles  on  the  station 
platform,  with  his  ghastly  charge.  He  was,  however,  not 
long  alone.  Though  it  was  scarcely  yet  seven  o'clock, 
there  were  presently  half  a  dozen  people  at  hand  eager 
to  do  something  for  the  great  man  of  the  town ;  and  in 
fifteen  minutes  an  undertaker's  wagon  arrived  for  the 
body  of  Philip,  and  a  carriage  was  placed  at  the  disposal 
of  Charles,  which,  after  giving  a  few  orders  to  the  obse- 
quious undertaker,  who  had  come  in  person,  and  ask- 
ing a  few  more  questions  about  the  inquest,  Van  Stud- 

270 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


diford  was  glad  enough  to  make  use  of  to  drive  him  to  the 
house  of  Doctor  Hollis. 

Here  he  was  received  with  consternation  by  good  Mrs. 
Hollis  herself,  who  was  already  up,  and,  a  moment  or 
two  later,  by  the  Doctor,  in  a  somewhat  miscellaneous 
costume.  Much  to  his  disgust,  Charles,  with  the  brief 
preliminary  explanation,  "  I've  broken  my  shoulder,"  im- 
mediately went  off  into  another  faint.  When  he  came 
to,  he  found  himself  on  the  sofa  in  the  Doctor's  office, 
with  Jim  Hollis  bending  anxiously  over  him. 

"  How  the  Devil  did  this  thing  happen.  Van  Studdi- 
ford?  Your  whole  left  side  is  as  black  as  a  hat.  Your 
shoulder's  dislocated — or  was,  rather,  and  your  collar 
bone's  broken.  But  these  won't  bother  you  so  much.  It's 
the  shock  I  object  to. — What  the  Devil  is  it?  " 

"  It's  a  bad  business,  Jim. — Have  you  set  the  bone 
yet?" 

"  No." 

"How  long'U  it  take?" 

"  Well — I  don't  think  you'll  need  an  anaesthetic 
for  that. — Twenty  minutes,  I  should  say." 

"  Then  do  three  things  for  me  first,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Ask  your  wife  to  telephone  my  place  to  hold  break- 
fast for  me  till  eight-thirty,  and  to  say  that  I  should  like 
Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  to  come  down,  if  she  will  be  so 
good.  Then  ask  Mrs.  Hollis  to  telephone  Aronson,  my 
lawyer,  to  be  at  the  house  at  9.15  this  morning,  sharp. 
Last,  I  want  a  telegram  sent  off  to  James  Atkinson,  2306 
Indiana  Avenue,  Chicago,  to  have  him  out  here  on  the 

271 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


first  train  he  can  catch,  and  to  come  straight  to  me. 
That's  highly  important," 

HolHs  had  listened  attentively  to  the  directions  as 
Van  Studdiford  ticked  them  off  on  his  fingers,  and  had 
taken  down  the  address  given.  In  ten  minutes  the  three 
things  had  been  set  under  way.  Mrs.  Hollis  was  at  the 
telephone,  the  telegram  was  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  a 
messenger,  and  the  Doctor  had  set  to  work  on  his  patient's 
shoulder.  Nor,  while  he  deftly  performed  his  task,  did 
Jim  Hollis  speak.  But  in  his  heart  he  had  an  overween- 
ing curiosity  to  know  the  secret  of  Charles'  injury,  and, 
above  all,  to  learn  why  he  should  have  sent  for  James 
Atkinson. 

When,  at  the  unusual  hour  of  half  past  seven  o'clock, 
the  telephone  in  the  Van  Studdiford  house  rang,  violently, 
Carson  was  luckily  downstairs  and  at  hand  to  answer  it. 
From  the  butler's  point  of  view,  the  message  was  highly 
interesting:  a  lady  to  say  that,  by  the  Master's  orders, 
breakfast  was  to  be  half  an  hour  late,  and  the  Madam 
to  come  down  to  it ! — Humph ! — So  the  Master  was  out 
of  the  house. — And  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  was  to  come 
to  breakfast!  It  was  unheard  of!  Carson  left  the 
telephone  full  to  bursting  with  news  and  conjecture, 
neither  of  which  would  he  deign  to  give  to  any  of  the 
under-servants.  But  he  was  pleased  to  communicate  it 
all  to  the  cook,  who,  while  she  held  back  the  corn-bread, 
told  it  to  the  two  housemaids.  And  presently  in  came 
James,  one  of  the  grooms,  who  could  testify  from  Sefton 
that  the  Master  had  been  in  the  bam  between  five-thirty 
and  six,  had  taken  Lightning  and  the  runabout,  and  that 

2.J2 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Sefton  believed,  but  was  not  certain,  that  there  had  been 
another  person  with  him.  Here  James'  finger  went  im- 
pertinently against  his  nose,  and  he  winked  at  Molly,  the 
upper  housemaid,  till  she  giggled,  hysterically. 

"  James,  we  all  know  that  if  the  Master  had  anyone 
with  him,  it  was  not  a — female,"  observed  Carson,  with 
high  dignity. 

The  butler,  indeed,  cognizant  of  much  that  was  now 
history,  surmised,  to  his  own  satisfaction,  the  events  of 
the  night  up  to  the  time  of  that  unprecedented  drive.  But 
concerning  that  and  its  result,  he  was  forced  to  admit  to 
himself  that  he  knew  nothing.  Nevertheless,  he  was 
uneasy.  Though  he  was  too  loyal  to  his  family  to  sug- 
gest his  real  ideas  in  the  kitchen,  he  longed  for  a  con- 
fidant. Finally,  therefore,  as  a  double  solution  of  his 
dilemma,  he  went  upstairs  and  knocked  at  Lucy  Markle's 
door. 

Lucy,  a  much-privileged  person,  was  subject  to  none 
of  the  servants'  hours,  but  entirely  to  the  caprices  of  her 
mistress.  Therefore  when,  at  a  quarter  before  eight, 
Carson  found  her  still  in  bed,  he  could  make  no  comment, 
though  his  face  expressed  his  disapproval.  For  ten  min- 
utes Lucy,  a  pretty  negligee  over  her  night-gown  and 
her  hair  in  becoming  disorder,  stood  at  her  door,  talking 
with  the  butler.  The  conversation  appeared  to  interest 
both  of  them,  greatly,  for  each  was  reluctant  to  turn  away. 
It  soon  became  a  necessity,  however,  for  Lucy  to  begin 
her  toilet,  that  the  Master's  unusual  order  might  be 
obeyed.  It  was,  indeed,  five  minutes  to  eight  before  she 
shut  her  door  and  began,  rapidly,  to  dress.    It  seemed  to 

273 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


be  a  difficult  process.  Lucy's  face  had  become  as  white  as 
paper.  Her  hands  were  shaking,  and  her  heart  palpitated, 
violently.  Her  whole  being  seemed  in  the  clutch  of  an 
ungovernable  fear:  the  fear  of  Charles  Van  Studdiford, 
"  the  Master,"  and  of  what  he  had  discovered  of  the 
affair  of  the  past  night. 

It  was  two  or  three  minutes  after  eight  when  she 
entered  the  room  where  her  mistress  lay  in  sound,  dream- 
less sleep.  After  pulling  up  all  the  shades,  to  let  in  the 
dull  light  of  the  gray  day,  she  went  to  the  bed  and  stood, 
for  a  moment,  looking  down  upon  Virginia,  noting  that, 
even  in  repose,  the  trouble  of  her  mind  had  left  signs 
of  its  presence  on  her  features,  till  the  face  was  no 
longer  very  young. 

"  Madam !  "  said  Lucy,  quietly.  And  again :  "  Mrs. 
Van  Studdiford!" 

Virginia  moved,  and  uttered  some  sound.  "  Mrs.  Van 
Studdiford !  "  repeated  the  low,  clear  voice. 

The  sleeper's  eyes  opened.  "  You,  Lucy  ? — What  is 
it?    Is  it  late?" 

"  Mr.  Van  Studdiford  has  telephoned  that  he  wishes 
you  to  be  at  breakfast  at  half  past  eight." 

Virginia  put  her  hands  up  to  her  eyes  and  rubbed 
them  open.  She  was  overpoweringly  sleepy.  "  Charles — 
telephoned — Why — "  And  then  Virginia  looked  up,  and 
saw  her  own  sudden  dread  reflected  in  the  eyes  of  her 
maid.  Mechanically  she  got  out  of  bed.  "  Where  is  Mr. 
Van  Studdiford  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  We  don't  know.  Madam. — He  drove  out  of  the 
stable,  in  the  runabout,  between  half  past  five  and  six." 

274 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


"Oh!— Alone?" 

"  Sefton  was  not  sure." 

"  *  Between  half  past  five  and  six.* — Ah  f "  Suddenly 
Virginia  turned  on  the  girl.    "  Is  that  all  you  know  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Madam." 

Then  began  the  silent  toilet,  the  half-hour  of  hope 
and  fear,  the  first  fluctuations  between  a  manufactured 
confidence  and  the  terror  that  is  so  much  worse  than  cer- 
tainty of  the  worst.  Lucy's  fingers  worked  rapidly ;  and 
Virginia  recognized  in  them  the  speed  of  apprehension. 
Whenever  she  looked  into  Lucy's  face,  it  was  to  find 
mirrored  there  her  own  unhappy  thoughts.  During  the 
twenty  minutes  of  dressing  not  a  word  was  spoken  be- 
tween mistress  and  maid.  The  lips  of  both  were  sealed ; 
for  the  same  knowledge,  the  same  ignorance,  the  same 
doubt,  the  same  fear,  lay  in  each  mind,  hid  in  each  heart. 
And  if  either  began  to  speak,  where  should  she  find  pause? 

It  was  twenty-eight  minutes  after  the  hour  when,  the 
last  hook  fastened,  Lucy  stood  off,  as  usual,  to  survey  her 
lady,  and  presently  to  say :  "  You  are  finished.  Madam." 

There  was  something  in  those  familiar  words  that  sud- 
denly renewed  Virginia's  hope,  and  gave  her  courage 
and  poise.  After  all — had  they  not  been  frightening 
themselves  over  nothing  but  an  unusual  incident?  And, 
holding  this  possibility  to  her  heart,  she  quietly  left  the 
room. 

But  while  she  was  yet  on  the  stairs  it  rushed  upon 
her  again,  that  unreasoning  terror,  gripping  and  shak- 
ing her,  replacing  all  reason  by  fear.  It  was  by  the  great- 
est eflFort,  only,  that  she  continued  on  her  way,  finally 

275 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


reaching  the  dining-room,  where  she  found  herself  face 
to  face  with  Van  Studdiford :  Van  Studdiford,  her  hus- 
band :  her  husband,  his  big  right  arm  bandaged,  his  skin 
mottled  with  the  white  and  red  of  emotion;  his  face 
drawn  and  haggard  with — was  it  pain? 

At  sight  of  him  Virginia  stopped  short,  and,  all  at 
once,  her  senses  were  stilled,  and  everything,  even  fear, 
was  subordinated  to  a  halting  question: 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Charles  ?  " 


276 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Van  Studdiford  had  been  standing  to  receive  her; 
but,  now  that  she  had  seated  herself,  he  lurched  forward, 
and  sank  into  his  chair.  He  was  half  drunk ;  for  Hollis 
had  forced  enough  brandy  down  him,  after  the  setting 
of  his  collar-bone,  to  make  him  desire  more,  which,  taken 
upon  an  empty  stomach,  and  combined  with  the  pain  of 
his  bruised  body  and  hurt  shoulder,  had  roused  all  the 
fierce  ugliness  in  his  nature.  It  was  a  minute  or  two  be- 
fore he  spoke,  and  Carson  was  in  the  room  when  he 
answered  his  wife's  question: 

"  I've  broken  a  collar-bone — damn  you !  " 
Virginia  quivered,  and,  for  an  instant,  her  eyes  closed. 
A  moment  later  she  opened  thera,  to  ask,  coldly :  "  Will 
you  have  coffee  ?  " 

"  No. — Bring  me  a  Scotch  and  soda,  Carson." 
Again  there  was  a  silence.  But  through  it  Virginia's 
heart  sank.  Surely — surely,  though  never  before  in  his 
life  had  Charles  addressed  her  like  this,  all  was  well  with 
Philip !  Charles  could  not  possibly  have  seen  him  to-day. 
It  was  some  unexpected  business  matter;  and  the  acci- 
dent had  put  him  into  a  temper. — Yet — was  it  possible 
that  any  horse  in  the  stables  should  have  got  beyond  his 
control,  drunk  or  sober? 

^77 


THE  FIRE   OF   SPRING 


The  silence  grew  more  and  more  oppressive.  Carson 
moved  noiselessly  about  the  room,  and  Van  Studdiford 
ate,  steadily,  till,  in  spite  of  himself,  his  dizzy  exhilaration 
began  to  lessen.  Virginia  waited  until  curiosity  and  dread 
had  overcome  her  repulsion  and  the  slight  fear  of  her 
husband  in  his  condition.  Then  she  asked,  in  a  voice 
unnatural  from  various  causes : 

"  Were  you  run  away  with,  Charles  ?  Did  you  have 
an  accident  with  one  of  the  horses  ?  " 

For  a  moment  he  stared  at  her,  contemplatively.  Then 
he  said,  this  time  without  discourtesy :  "  I  was  in  the 
runabout  with  Lightning.  We  made  an  attempt  to  stop 
the  Early  Mail  on  the  Rock  Island  by  getting  in  front 
of  it." 

"Heavens!" 

A  fresh  pause.  Another  question  lay  in  Virginia's 
heart ;  nay,  trembled  on  her  tongue.  Why  was  her  hus- 
band out  at  such  an  hour,  in  the  runabout? — Why? — 
Why? — Was  it,  after  all,  only  on  business?  A  dozen 
times  she  asked  herself  these  things.  But  Charles  she 
would  not  ask,  because  she  dared  not  hear  the  answer. 

Van  Studdiford's  thoughts  were  running  along  the 
same  line.  Momentarily  he  expected  one  question  from 
his  wife ;  but  he  could  not  decide  what  his  reply  would 
be:  truth,  or  evasion.  In  causing  her  to  come  to  the 
breakfast-table,  his  first  idea  had  been  that  his  appear- 
ance would  explain  everything.  But  later  another  scheme 
had  taken  possession  of  his  mind:  a  thing  of  infinite 
detail,  but  with  much  to  commend  it;  and  he  was  in- 
clined to  adopt  this  idea  at  once.     Therefore  imme- 

278 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


diate  knowledge  on  Virginia's  part  was  no  longer 
desirable. 

Virginia  did  not,  as  he  had  half  feared,  necessitate 
instant  decision.  The  meal  progressed  and  dragged, 
wearily,  till  it  was  finally  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  the 
bell,  followed  by  Carson's  announcement: 

"  Mr.  Aronson,  to  see  Mr.  Van  Studdiford." 

"  Show  him  to  the  library." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Charles  made  no  immediate  move  toward  rising;  but 
Virginia,  who  for  some  time  had  ceased  any  pretense  of 
eating,  got  up  at  once,  thankfully,  and  her  husband  fol- 
lowed her.  As  she  turned  to  leave  the  dining-room 
Charles  asked,  casually: 

"  You're  going  to  your  room  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Nodding  for  answer  he  left  her,  and  went  hurriedly 
to  the  library,  the  door  of  which  closed  as  Virginia  pro- 
ceeded wearily  upstairs. 

When  she  entered  it,  her  room  was  empty;  and  of 
this  she  was  glad.  Shutting  both  doors  she  threw  her- 
self upon  her  chaise  longue,  and,  closing  her  eyes,  tried 
to  think.  But  logical  thinking  becomes  a  difficult  matter 
when  the  conclusion  to  be  reached  from  the  one  train 
of  known  circumstances,  is  again  and  again  repudiated, 
and  the  search  for  some  loop-hole  of  escape  recommenced. 
Virginia  would  not,  could  not,  believe  that  Philip  and  her 
husband  had,  that  morning,  encountered  each  other;  or 
that  the  collision  and  Charles'  injuries  had  any  connec- 
tion with  her  lover.    But  she  might  put  away  this  thought 

279 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


every  moment  of  every  hour:  it  never  ceased  its  knock- 
knock-knock  at  her  mind's  door,  till  the  very  conscious- 
ness of  its  presence  became  unbearable. 

After  a  time,  however,  as  she  lay  wrapped  in  the 
deepest  quiet,  physical  exhaustion  overcame  even  her 
mental  distress,  and  she  lapsed,  by  gentle  degrees,  into 
an  uneasy  sleep.  This  had  lasted  but  half  an  hour  when, 
with  a  deep  moan,  she  forced  herself  awake  from  a  dream 
so  monstrous,  so  terrifying,  and,  at  the  same  time,  so 
formless,  that,  long  after  she  had  come  to  her  senses,  she 
lay  shuddering  at  the  intimate  memory  of  it.  To  remain 
alone  in  her  room  any  longer  seemed  unbearable.  She 
wondered  why  no  one  came  to  make  it  up.  Perhaps, 
seeing  her  there  asleep,  the  housemaid  had  stolen  away 
again.  At  any  rate,  she  would  summon  Lucy,  her  con- 
stant refuge ;  and,  rising,  she  rang  the  bell. 

One,  two,  five  minutes  passed,  but  the  bell  was  not 
answered.  She  pushed  it  again,  impatiently.  After  still 
another  period  of  waiting,  angered  by  the  negligence, 
she  ran  to  her  door  and,  turning  the  handle,  pushed  it, 
impatiently.  For  all  her  force,  it  did  not  yield.  With 
a  faint  cry,  she  ran  to  her  boudoir,  and  tried  the  door 
leading  to  Lucy's  room.  It  also  was  locked.  Completely 
aghast,  Virginia  sank  into  a  chair  near  one  of  the  dress- 
ing-room windows,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Again,  though  the  bitter  knowledge  hidden  in  her 
secret  heart  made  the  question  superfluous,  she  asked 
herself,  wildly,  the  meaning  of  this  thing.  She,  a  pris- 
oner! virtually  a  prisoner,  in  her  own  rooms!  Surely 
there  could  be  no  adequate  reason  for  this:  no  reason 

280 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


that  anybody  could  know!  Charles  had  no  right, 
no 

Suddenly  her  trend  of  thought  was  changed  by  dis- 
tinct sounds  in  Lucy's  room.  Someone  there  was  moving 
hurriedly  about,  the  noise  of  drawers  opening  and  shut- 
ting being  interspersed  by  little  gasps  that  sounded  very 
like  sobs.  For  some  minutes  Virginia  listened,  intently, 
but  with  a  puzzled  expression.  Then,  all  at  once,  the  light 
broke  upon  her.  She  rose,  ran  to  the  intervening  door, 
and,  with  her  mouth  at  the  key-hole,  said,  softly : 

"Lucy!" 

There  was  no  reply.  After  a  moment,  Virginia  re- 
peated, more  loudly :  "  Lucy !  " 

Then  came  a  sudden  cessation  of  the  sounds  in  the 
room. 

"Lucy!    Is  that  you?'* 

But  no  answer  followed.  Only,  after  a  moment, 
came  the  voice  of  Carson,  saying,  sternly :  "  Why  have 
you  stopped?     Go  on  with  your  packing." 

Then,  at  last,  the  truth  of  the  utter  helplessness  of  her 
situation  rushed  upon  Virginia.  In  the  first  moment 
she  was  filled  with  a  wild  desire  to  beat  upon  the  door 
and  scream  out  to  Lucy  to  be  faithful  to  her  trust.  An 
instant  later  she  knew  that,  be  Lucy  never  so  faithful, 
speech  from  her  was  probably  not  needed.  Moving  un- 
consciously, wrapped  as  she  was  in  bitterest  thought, 
she  recrossed  her  dressing-room,  entered  the  bedroom, 
and  there,  seating  herself  upon  her  couch,  gave  herself 
up  to  relentless  understanding. 

Look  at  it  how  she  would,  something  was  known. 
18  281 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


How  much  ?  What,  oh,  what,  had  happened  in  that  early 
morning ,  while  she  slept  ?  What  had  Charles  done  ? 
What  was  he  doing  ? — Aronson  was  with  him :  Aronson, 
the  lawyer ! — Ah ! — Divorce ! 

A  great  joy,  an  overpowering  relief,  rushed  into  Vir- 
ginia's heart.  Divorce!  Freedom,  forever,  from  the 
presence,  from  the  very  thought,  of  the  husband  whom 
she  had  betrayed  and  dishonored,  was  a  hope  such  as  she 
had  scarcely  dared  to  entertain.  Before  this  time  she 
had  surmised  much  of  Charles'  character,  and  had  read 
him  correctly.  She  had  not  hitherto  believed  that  he 
would  agree  to  that  which  she  longed  for  at  whatever 
expense  of  reputation.  But  now  that  hope,  which 
crushed  again  and  again,  rises  forever  in  one  form  or 
another,  suddenly  appeared  and  took  possession  of  her 
in  the  guise  of  a  possible  legal  separation. 

Wrapped  in  fresh  thoughts,  reflecting  upon  all  the 
sudden  possibilities  of  this  new  picture  of  life,  one  that 
was  not  without  its  shadows,  time  passed  away,  morning 
grew  slowly  into  noon,  and  Virginia,  turned  from  the 
front  windows  of  her  room,  had  seen  nothing  of  the  de- 
parture of  Lucy,  who,  in  the  back  seat  of  the  surrey, 
with  her  small  trunk  at  Sefton's  knee  and  her  satchel 
in  her  lap,  was  driven  away,  still  weeping,  dully,  down 
the  road  toward  the  Rock  Island  station. 

Were  Charles  Van  Studdiford  indeed  meditating  di- 
vorce, it  had  been  unwise  enough  thus  to  antagonize  the 
most  valuable  of  witnesses ! 

Though  Virginia  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  Lucy's 
actual  departure,  there  was  little  need  of  that  to  assure 

282 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


her  that  the  faithful  and  devoted  companion  of  her  tragic 
romance  would  not  serve  her  again  in  Grangeford.  The 
view  from  the  window  near  which  she  sat  was  of  the 
lawn  and  tennis  court,  bounded  by  those  woods  in  which, 
such  a  little  time  before,  Philip  had  stood  impatiently 
awaiting  the  appearance  of  the  lamp  in  her  room. 
Every  object  there  gave  its  own  memories  to  the  unhappy 
woman :  memories  infinitely  dear,  though  fraught  now 
with  terror  and  dire  foreboding.  She  sat  lost  in  them, 
bowed  by  them,  till  she  was  startled  by  the  slight  click 
of  the  key  turning  in  the  lock  of  her  door.  Rising  un- 
certainly, she  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  mur- 
mured, softly :  "  Come  in." 

She  had  expected  her  husband.  It  was  only  Carson, 
who  entered,  laid  a  luncheon-tray  on  her  table,  and,  with 
a  slight  bow  in  her  direction,  silently  withdrew.  A  mo- 
ment later  came  the  click  again.  The  jailer  had  gone. 
The  captive  was  once  more  alone  in  her  easy  prison. 
Hunger  was  the  last  sensation  that  Virginia  could  have 
felt ;  but  she  walked  over  to  the  table  and  looked  at  the 
tray  with  some  interest.  Evidently  the  little  meal  had  been 
carefully  prepared ;  and  it  was  daintily  arranged,  the  tray 
not  crowded,  and  everything  hot.  Looking,  she  suddenly 
remembered  that,  during  the  ordeal  of  breakfast,  she  had 
eaten  nothing  at  all ;  and  she  realized  now  that  she  was 
faint  for  food.  Sitting  down,  therefore,  in  the  spot  where 
she  and  Philip  had  eaten  so  many  joyous  little  suppers, 
she  played  with  a  bit  of  broiled  chicken,  drank  a  cup  of 
fragrant  tea,  and  spoiled  the  shape  of  the  delicate  little 
custard.    And  all  the  time  she  ate,  a  sense  of  wide  relief 

283 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


was  mingled  with  her  grief  and  bitterness.  For  never 
again,  she  thought,  need  she  look  up  from  her  plate  to 
encounter,  opposite  her,  the  red  face  of  Charles  Van 
Studdiford. 

The  meal  revived  her,  unquestionably ;  and,  when  it 
was  over,  she  had  already  thought  of  an  occupation  for 
the  afternoon.  Rather,  perhaps,  the  occupation  was 
forced  on  her ;  for,  weary  with  useless  thinking,  the  ex- 
haustion resulting  from  a  sleepless  night  returning  to  her, 
she  undressed,  found  her  night-gown  for  herself,  crept  into 
the  unmade  bed,  shivered,  drew  the  blankets  close,  and, 
in  three  minutes,  was  lost  in  a  heavy,  dreamless  sleep. 

It  lasted  for  nearly  four  hours ;  and,  during  that  time, 
there  was  not  a  sound  in  the  room.  No  one  came  near 
either  it  or  her.  The  luncheon  tray  still  stood  upon  the 
table.  A  pale,  wintry  sunbeam  strayed  in  and  away  again. 
The  shadows  lengthened;  and  the  long,  gray  day  was 
drifting  slowly  to  its  death  when  Virginia,  cruelly  re- 
freshed and  invigorated,  opened  her  eyes  upon  the  wreck 
and  ruin  of  her  life. 

It  was  an  awakening  infinitely  bitter.  Now,  at  last, 
she  must  drain  to  the  dregs  her  bitter  draughts  of  appre- 
hension, uncertainty,  fear.  In  the  morning,  her  jaded 
nerves  had  refused  to  vibrate  to  any  sensation.  Now 
they  performed  their  work  thoroughly,  till  Virginia, 
racked  and  torn,  sprang  up  and  began,  feverishly,  to 
dress. 

Her  hands,  long  unaccustomed  to  work  on  her  own 
behalf,  performed  their  task  awkwardly  enough ;  but  the 
occupation,  in  spite  of  her  haste,  still  gave  plenty  of 

284 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


opportunity  for  what  she  wished  to  escape : — thought.  It 
was  not,  however,  till  she  was  fully  dressed,  in  a  plain 
morning  gown,  and  had  dragged  the  clothes  off  the  bed  to 
let  them  air,  and  had  once  more  vainly  tried  both  doors, 
that  she  allowed  her  mind  full  freedom.  Then,  however, 
immediately,  she  evolved  a  plan :  a  plan  of  which,  twenty- 
four  hours  before,  she  would  have  been  entirely  incapable ; 
but  which  now  suddenly  presented  itself  to  her  as  the  most 
feasible  thing  in  the  world.  It  depended  upon  one  thing 
only.  Oh,  most  pitiful!  It  depended  only,  and  wholly, 
upon  Philip's  appearance,  that  night,  according  to  agree- 
ment. And  if  Philip  were  able — if  Philip  were  alive — 
he  would  surely  come  to  her. — "  If  Philip  were  alive  I  " 
— ^Virginia  shuddered,  and  strove  to  put  the  dreaded 
doubt  away.  Absurd !  Childish !  Her  husband  was,  at 
least,  no — murderer ! —  "  But  the  accident  ?  The  col- 
lision ?  " — Well,  it  was  an  accident.  Charles  had  been 
out  in  the  runabout,  on  business,  alone. 

By  the  eventual  banishment  of  that  persistent,  inward 
voice,  Virginia  accomplished  much.  She  was  now  free 
to  prepare  for  the  carrying  out  of  her  plan ;  and,  without 
more  ado,  she  set  to  work.  A  small  satchel,  fortunately 
kept  on  a  shelf  in  her  wardrobe,  she  filled  with  her 
valuables,  all  her  jewels,  and  her  money — a  few  cents 
over  six  dollars.  Then,  by  much  cramming,  she  added  a 
few  necessities  of  the  toilet.  Finally,  she  opened  Mme. 
Dupre's  golden  box  and  took  out  a  few  letters,  which 
she  should  have  burned.  But  this  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  do ;  and  so,  in  the  end,  they  also  went  into  the 
satchel. 

285 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Only  one  more  thing  now  remained  to  be  done ;  and 
of  the  practicality  of  this  she  still  had  doubts.  All  fairy- 
tales, stories  of  adventure,  even  tales  by  celebrated  novel- 
ists, were  wont  to  set  their  heroes,  at  one  time  or  an- 
other, in  a  situation  whence  escape  is  only  possible  by 
means  of  ropes  made  of  bedding.  Think  as  she  would, 
this  seemed  to  her  the  only  possible  issue.  She  must 
get  down  to  Philip;  and,  the  doors  being  locked,  the 
windows  presented  the  sole  means  of  escape.  It  was 
full  fifteen  feet  to  the  ground.  Jumping  were  madness. 
Nevertheless,  unheroine-like,  she  hesitated  at  the  tear- 
ing up  of  a  sheet.  And,  in  that  one  moment  of  hesitation, 
Hope's  barricade  went  suddenly  down,  and  the  armies 
of  Fear  rushed  upon  her  again.  Despairing  and  help- 
less, surrendered,  at  last,  unconditionally,  to  a  remorse- 
less foe,  she  sat  huddled  in  her  chair,  her  head  upon 
her  breast,  the  satchel  standing  beside  her  on  the  little 
desk. 

During  the  ensuing  progress  of  wretched  thoughts 
Carson  came  in  again  with  dinner.  Ere  he  departed, 
bearing  the  luncheon  tray,  his  eyes  had  fallen  upon  the 
satchel,  which  fact  was  duly  reported  to  his  Master,  who, 
hearing  of  it,  laughed  harshly,  but  said  nothing. 

His  wife,  however,  now  gave  as  little  thought  to  that 
satchel  as  he  did.  Indeed,  her  spirit  was  completely 
cowed.  While  the  darkness  grew,  and  a  low-moaning 
wind  began  to  creep  round  the  house-corner  and  in  at  the 
window-cracks,  chilling  the  cheerless  room,  she  still  sat, 
motionless,  drooping,  not  definitely  thinking,  only,  min- 
ute by  minute,  suffering  such  slow  anguish  as  no  one, 

286 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


five  years  before,  would  have  believed  Time  could  have 
brought  her  to  or  made  her  capable  of.  Time  now  was 
nothing  to  her.  Four  endless  hours — seven,  eight,  nine, 
and  ten,  struck  before  she  roused  herself.  But  when 
the  change  came  again,  it  was  complete. 

It  was  ten  o'clock,  but  Virginia  did  not  know  it. 
Charles,  the  long  strain  of  the  inquest  over,  had  been  in 
bed  for  some  time,  and  had  by  now  dropped  into  a  fever- 
ish, painful  sleep.  The  servants,  all  the  wonders  of  the 
day  talked  out^  had  also  retreated  to  their  rooms. 
Never,  in  the  history  of  her  love,  had  the  place  been 
safer  for  deception  than  now.  This,  though  her  mind 
was  not  in  a  state  for  reassurance,  she  instinctively  di- 
vined. And,  by  degrees,  as  that  sense  became  stronger, 
little  thrills  of  hope  began  to  creep  back  through  her 
heart. 

Rising,  she  groped  through  the  darkness  to  the  wall 
beside  her  bureau,  where  there  was  an  electric  button. 
This  she  turned  on.  Then,  with  hurried  movements,  she 
drew  a  box  of  matches  from  a  drawer,  and,  her  fingers 
trembling,  lighted  the  little  lamp  that  stood  c«i  the  table 
where  her  untouched  dinner  lay.  This,  hands  shaking, 
heart  wildly  throbbing,  she  carried  to  the  window-sill. 
Setting  it  there,  she  turned  off  the  light  again,  and  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  staring  at  the  lamp — Philip's 
signal. 

After  a  moment  she  bethought  herself.  There  was 
no  devoted  Lucy  to  work  for  her  to-night.  It  was  im- 
peratively necessary  that  she  should  catch  sight  of  Philip's 
figure,  and,  risking  speech  in  the  open  night,  explain  to 

287 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


him  her  captivity.  In  one  moment  she  had  slightly  raised 
the  window,  lest  his  whistle  should  escape  her,  and, 
pressing  her  face  to  the  pane,  began  her  vigil. 

What  a  watch  it  was!  And  what  pitiful  watches 
most  women  have  known !  But  some  there  are  that  are 
rewarded  by  his  coming.  At  first,  resolutely  stilling  all 
her  feelings,  she  set  herself  simply  to  her  task.  It  was 
nearly  an  hour  earlier  than  the  usual  time.  Certainly  it 
could  not  be  remarkable  if  Philip  were  not  up  here  yet. — 
The  night  was  so  very  cold ! — No  doubt  he  would  scarcely 
appear  before  eleven.  Yet,  of  course,  she  must  lose  no 
chance. 

The  minutes  ticked  along,  and  Virginia,  desperately 
resolving  not  to  realize  their  length,  felt  it  triply.  Before 
she  ceased  the  repeated  excuses,  they  had  sunk  into  a 
mere  mechanical  performance,  and  her  thoughts  were 
flying  beyond  them,  into  the  darkened  future.  Eleven 
struck;  but  no  Toreador's  whistle  rose  from  the  black 
lawn.  It  was  now  impossible  to  conceal,  even  from  her- 
self, that  he  was  late.  And,  if  he  were  in  Grangeford  at 
all,  he  must  have  arrived  at  seven,  by  the  last  train. 
What  was  there  in  the  town  to  detain  him? 

Half  past  eleven.  Virginia,  shivering  with  cold,  her 
heart  aching  with  worse  than  cold,  left  the  window,  and 
walked  once  or  twice  up  and  down  the  room,  to  straighten 
her  cramped  limbs  and  body.  In  two  minutes,  however, 
she  was  seized  with  terror  lest  the  whistle  be  given  un- 
heard, and  she  returned  to  her  place,  this  time  draw- 
ing up  the  morris  chair,  and  leaning  forward  to 
listen. 

288 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Twelve  o'clock  struck,  and  half  past,  and  one.  Still 
this  widowed  woman  strained  her  eyes  into  the  impene- 
trable shadows,  mind  and  body  almost  numb.  A  hundred 
feet  away  from  her  lay  her  legal  husband,  moaning  in 
a  feverish,  painful  sleep,  and  pouring  forth  to  the  heavy 
stillness  all  the  story  of  Atkinson's  death.  But  Virginia, 
well  beyond  ear-shot,  careless  of  Charles'  injuries,  re- 
fusing all  evidence  of  day  or  night,  still  sat  on,  waiting, 
drearily,  for  the  coming  of  her  dead. 

By  two  o'clock  she  knew,  in  her  own  heart,  that 
Philip  would  not  be  there  that  night.  "  He — must  have 
been — detained — in  Chicago."  This  was  the  conclusion 
that  she  allowed  herself.  But  still  her  stubborn  body 
refused  to  move  from  its  place,  though  she  had  shut  the 
window  when  the  cold  was  no  longer  endurable. 

It  seems  scarcely  fair  to  her  that,  some  time  after 
this,  Sleep  should  not  have  come  to  her  relief.  But, 
though  she  even  tried  for  it,  she  was  to  taste  wretched- 
ness to  the  full  that  night ;  the  climax  coming  with  the 
faint  vitality  of  the  morning  change,  and  the  despair 
of  the  dark  hour.  At  the  end,  however,  when  the  first 
dim  streak  of  gray  rose  in  the  East,  Virginia,  with  a  long, 
moaning  sigh,  lay  back  upon  the  cushioned  chair,  and, 
letting  her  eyes  shut  by  their  own  weight,  gave  herself 
up  to  the  blessed  refuge  of  the  unhappy. 

That  morning,  between  eight  and  ten,  the  Van  Studdi- 
ford  house  seemed  to  reawake  to  some  interest  in  its 
mistress ;  for,  at  regular  intervals  of  fifteen  minutes,  there 
came  a  tapping  at  her  bedroom  door.  When,  at  ten 
o'clock,  there  had  still  been  no  sign  from  the  room,  the 

289 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


person  who  knocked  deemed  it  expedient  to  resort  to 
summary  measures. 

Five  minutes  later,  Virginia  opened  her  eyes.  Her 
sleep  had  been  so  dreamless,  so  absolutely  heavy,  that,  on 
waking,  she  was  dazed  and  half  stunned ;  nor  was  this 
feeling  lessened  by  the  appearance  of  the  person  standing 
before  her,  whose  unfamiliar  and  unwinking  gaze  Vir- 
ginia presently  decided  must  have  caused  her  waking. 

"  Who — who  are  you  ?  "  she  asked,  after  a  moment 
or  two,  half  doubting  her  vision. 

"  I'm  Mrs.  Smith,  Ma'am ;  and  your  husband  has  en- 
gaged me  to  be  your  companion,"  replied  the  person, 
smiling  and  smoothing  her  skirt. 

"  My  companion !  " 

"  Well,  Ma'am,  Mr.  Van  Studdiford  said  to  me,  s'he, 
'  My  wife  needs  a  maid.' 

"'Mr.  Van  Studdiford,'  s'l,  'I'm  no  lady's  maid. 
Long  's  I've  known,  'n'  honored  you'n'  your  fam'ly,  I'm  no 
lady's  maid.  But,'  s'l, '  I'll  do  what  I  can.  I  c'n  hook  up 
a  dress,  an'  fix  a  tray,  *n'  draw  a  bath,  'n'  darn  beautiful. 
Nevertheless,  I'm  Jerry  Smith's  widow,  'n'  I  ain't  goin' 
to  pertend  to  bein*  a  maid.' 

"  Then  Mr.  Van  Studdiford,  your  husband,  s'he, 
'  That's  all  right,  Mrs.  Smith.  Whatever  you  are,  my  wife 
needs  you  to  take  care  of  her.'  'N'  so,  I'm  here. — Now, 
my  dear,  you  jest  get  off  that  dress,  'n'  wash  up  a  little,  'n' 
get  right  into  your  bed.  I'll  run  down  an'  get  your 
breakfast  in  a  jiffy. — 'N'  then  you  kin  rest  a  little,  while 
I  tidy  up  the  room  'n'  git  my  bearings. — Land !  What  a 
stack  o'  truck !  "  and  Mrs.  Smith  beamed  on  her  bewil- 

290 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


dered  mistress,  with  all  the  expansion  of  I^er  illiterate, 
kindly  humanity. 

For  a  moment,  Virginia  gazed  in  silence  at  the  figure 
before  her :  the  figure  of  a  woman  of  forty,  whose  medium 
height  appeared  greatly  increased  by  her  gaunt  angularity. 
From  the  seamed  and  gentle  face,  framed  in  smoothly 
brushed  dark  hair,  looked  out  the  friendly  spirit  of  one 
whom  the  many  griefs  and  trials  of  a  hard  life  had 
softened,  not  embittered.  Virginia,  who  had  been  drear- 
ily regretting  Lucy,  gazed  for  a  moment  into  the  faded 
hazel  eyes  of  this  most  motherly  of  childless  women,  and 
suddenly  felt  her  very  heart  dissolve  in  tears. 

Never  in  her  life  had  Virginia  cried,  or  thought  to 
cry,  as  she  cried  now.  Mrs.  Smith,  in  spite  of  the  com- 
mon sense  that  kept  her  busy  with  cold  water,  smelling- 
salts,  and  cheering  words,  was,  nevertheless,  frightened 
for  a  few  moments  by  the  violence  of  the  sobs.  Whatever 
she  knew  of  Virginia's  story,  and  whatever  her  precon- 
ceived idea  on  that  subject,  Ellen  Smith,  from  the  first 
half-hour  of  her  arrival,  took  a  sudden,  overwhelm- 
ing fancy,  bom  half  of  pity,  half  of  the  Mother-sense 
of  protection,  to  this  white-faced,  delicate,  sad-eyed 
woman,  who  was  kept  a  close  prisoner  by  her  husband, 
and  who  had  sat  up  all  night  at  the  window,  in  her 
chair. 

Moreover,  Virginia,  to  her  own,  intensest  amazement, 
found  herself,  as,  by  degrees,  the  wild  outburst  lessened 
and  grew  still,  with  her  head  on  the  shoulder,  and  her 
arms  round  the  neck,  of  Mrs.  Smith,  who  was  patting 
and  petting  and  soothing  as  her  own  Mother  had  never 

291 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


been  able  to  do.  A  little  bit  later  Virginia  was  in  bed, 
with  two  pillows,  in  comfortable  angles,  at  her  back, 
and  her  hands  and  face  cooler  and  fresher  than  Lucy  had 
ever  got  them.  Also,  a  very  few  minutes  later,  she  was 
drinking  a  cup  of  coffee,  fresh-made,  and  therefore  of  a 
fragrance  almost  unknown  to  her;  and  eating  a  slice  of 
toast,  the  crusts  of  which  had  not  been  cut  off,  but  which 
somehow  tasted  better  and  crisper  and  hotter  than  toast 
had  ever  tasted  before.  And  all  the  time  she  ate,  Mrs. 
Smith  was  moving  about  the  room,  not  very  noiselessly, 
not  at  all  with  Lucy's  trained  manner.  She  was,  as  she 
explained  it,  "  gittin'  her  bearings."  But  to  Virginia's 
eyes  the  sight  of  the  homely  figure  brought  inexpressi- 
ble comfort.  In  her  heart  she  realized  that,  from  this 
stranger,  she  had,  in  the  first  half  hour  of  their  meeting, 
received  a  species  of  affectionate  sympathy  for  which 
she  had  been  starving  all  her  life. 

The  day — that  day  of  the  eighteenth  of  February — 
passed,  not  like  the  day  before,  but  almost  tranquilly. 
Nearly  all  through  the  morning  Virginia  slept.  But  she 
woke  again  half  an  hour  before  luncheon  time,  which, 
a  little  to  Mrs.  Smith's  chagrin,  Carson,  with  his  most 
unapproachable  air,  arranged  on  its  tray  and  gave  to 
"  the  new  maid  "  merely  to  carry  upstairs. 

As  it  happened,  Charles  himself  had  his  noon  meal 
in  his  room  on  this  day.  Hollis  had  called  in  the  morn- 
ing, found  some  inflammation  in  the  shoulder,  rather  a 
high  temperature,  and  a  general  soreness  and  stiffness 
resulting  from  the  bruised  surfaces ;  and,  after  an  exami- 
nation, he  bade  his  patient  remain  in  bed  till  he  should 

292 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


improve  in  several  ways.  To  this  mandate  Charles  sub- 
mitted with  fairly  good  grace;  for  his  mind  was  full 
enough  to  provide  him  with  ample  occupation ;  and,  to 
tell  the  truth,  getting  up  brought  with  it  the  prospect 
of  gossip  and  curiosity  from  the  townspeople,  and  this 
he  was  willing  to  put  off  for  as  long  a  time  as  he  con- 
veniently could.  It  was  while  he  lay  here,  racked  with 
pain  and  excited  by  his  fever,  that  he  worked  out,  detail 
by  detail,  his  plans  for  Virginia's  future;  and  when  he 
was  still  at  his  luncheon  he  decided  to  hold  the  first  inter- 
view with  her  on  that  same  afternoon. 

After  his  meal  Van  Studdiford  dropped  his  logically 
conducted  examination  of  problems,  and  fell  into  an  in- 
voluntary musing  on  matters  of  which  he  could  scarcely 
have  told  the  object.  They  related  to  his  real  attitude 
toward  that  wife  whose  nature  and  temperament  he  had, 
up  to  the  week  before,  never  so  much  as  suspected.  Van 
Studdiford's  standard  of  women  had  never  been  high. 
But,  because  Virginia  had  been  especially  unapproach- 
able with  him,  he  had  believed  her  coldly  correct  and 
indifferent  to  all  the  world.  Now  that  she  had  revealed 
herself  in  this  other,  passionate  light, — which  was  also 
an  exaggeration  of  her  real  character — Charles  could  not 
determine  whether  he  felt  most  bitter  because  of  his  dis- 
honor, or  most  chagrined  that,  as  her  husband,  and  one 
who  had  genuinely  cared  for  her,  he  had  been  unable  to 
find  the  key  to  her  emotional  nature. 

This  question  had  by  no  means  been  answered  to 
Charles'  satisfaction  when,  with  a  good  deal  of  assist- 
ance from  Carson,  he  prepared  to  meet  the  subject  tof  his 

293 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


consideration.  For  half  an  hour  the  difficulty  of  dress- 
ing with  the  bandages  on  his  shoulder  and  his  bruised 
side,  gave  him  no  time  for  other  thoughts.  And  when 
he  was  quite  ready,  dressing-gown  and  slippers  taking 
the  place  of  a  more  ceremonious  but  impossible  toilet,  he 
allowed  himself  no  reflection,  but  took,  from  under  his 
pillow,  the  key  to  Virginia's  room,  proceeded  down  the 
hall,  knocked  at  her  door,  and,  after  a  moment's  fumbling 
at  the  lock  with  his  left  hand,  opened  it. 

As  he  entered,  Virginia  sprang  to  her  feet.  She  was 
alone,  fully  dressed,  and,  seeing  him,  her  eyes  suddenly 
lighted  with  eagerness. 

They  faced  each  other;  and  then,  under  Charles'  in- 
quiring gaze,  her  expression  changed  again.  The  look 
of  animation  was  replaced  by  one  of  stubborn  deter- 
mination, unbeautiful,  but  not  unfamiliar  to  the  man 
before  her. 

"  May  I  sit  down  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  If  you  want  to." 

He  seated  himself  in  a  chair  opposite  to  that  from 
which  she  had  risen,  and  to  which  she  now  returned. 
There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  Virginia,  her  chin  tilted 
into  the  air,  observed : 

"  So  the  jailer  is  making  a  round  of  his  prisoners? — 
What  does  he  want  ?  " 

"  He  wants  to  know  if  you  are  in  every  way  satisfied 
— with  your  prison." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  keep  me  here  ?  "  Her  tone  changed, 
suddenly,  to  one  of  indignation. 

"  If  necessary." 

294 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


"Necessary! — Charles,  this  is — this  is — illegal!"  she 
hazarded. 

He  shrugged  one  shoulder,  and  frowned  at  the  pain 
in  the  other.  "  You're  my  wife.  You  promised  obe- 
dience," he  returned,  in  a  voice  harsh  with  pain. 

"  Then  I  take  back  that  promise,  here,  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven! — Oh,  Charles,  it  is  all  so  simple!  Sue  me  for 
divorce,  on  whatever  grounds  you  choose.  I  shall  never 
even  attempt  a  defense.  I  swear  to  you  that  I  will  never 
trouble  you,  that  I  will  never  so  much  as  see  you  again. 
And  if  you  will  only  let  me  go,  I'll — I'll  bless  you,  as  long 
as  I  live !  " 

She  stopped,  breathless,  and  Van  Studdiford  examined 
her  keenly.  He  could  scarcely  have  believed  that  she, 
even  in  her  situation,  would  wish  to  ruin  herself  so  ab- 
solutely. Evidently  she  was  not  yet  worldly-wise,  and 
was  still  unable  to  take  care  of  herself.  Manlike,  this 
thought  appealed  to  him.  Well,  she  should  not  have 
to  take  care  of  herself.  It  was  he,  her  husband,  who 
would  still  protect  her,  even  from  her  own  unwisdom. 

"  Have  you  thoroughly  considered  just  what  such  a 
divorce  as  you  suggest  would  mean  to  you  ?  "  he  observed, 
quietly.    "  Let  me  lay  it  before  you. 

"  Should  I  do  as  you  suggest,  and  divorce  you,  there 
would,  as  we  both  know,  be  but  one  ground  for  which 
I  could  bring  proof.  That  ground  is  the  most  notorious 
of  all.  There  would,  of  course,  be  no  alimony  from  me ; 
and  you  would  be  obliged  to  leave  my  protection  a  social 
outcast,  penniless,  a  burden  to  your  Mother,  who  certainly 
has  burden  enough,  and  without  any  possible  chance  of 

295 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


ever  regaining  your  position. — What  in  the  world  would 
you  do  ?  " 

"  You  are  mistaken  in  your  chief  point.  I  should 
not  add  to  my  Mother's  burden;  for  I  should  not  go 
to  her." 

"  Ah !    You  would  live  alone  ?  " 

"  I  should  go  to  one  to  whom  I  could  not  be  a  burden ; 
one  who  is  waiting  for  me,  who  wants  me,  has  wanted 
me,  for  a  long,  long  time." 

"  And  may  I  ask — who  this  person  is  ?  "  requested  Van 
Studdiford,  outwardly  courteous,  though  with  a  little 
tremor  behind  his  mask.  He  knew  that  she  must  learn 
the  truth  without  delay;  but  he  was  undeniably  appre- 
hensive about  the  result  of  the  revelation. 

For  only  a  second  or  two  did  Virginia  hesitate.  Then, 
though  her  poor  bravado  was  tremulously  near  to  break- 
ing, she  said,  clearly :  "  I  go  at  once  to  the  man  I  love, 
to  the  man  who  loves  me  above  all  other  things." 

"  And  this  man  ?  " 

"  Philip  Atkinson." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  during  which  Virginia  sat 
listening  to  the  wild  throbbing  of  her  heart.  Then  Van 
Studdiford  rose,  painfully.  "  You  could  scarcely  go  to 
Philip  now,  Virginia." 

"Wh— why?" 

"  Because  Philip — was  in  the  runabout  with  me  yester- 
day morning,  when  we  were  struck  by  the  early  mail. — 
He  was  killed." 

For  a  second,  her  heart  was  held  in  a  fierce  vice.  It 
could  not  beat,  and  she  gasped  with  pain.    After  that  she 

296 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


sat  perfectly  still,  while  a  monstrous  weight  settled  down 
upon  her,  and  a  gray  mist  closed  her  in  from  the  world. 
Through  this  mist  she  could  still  see  the  face  of  Charles 
turned  toward  her,  looking  at  her  keenly,  with  eyes  that 
were  not  angry,  that  were  scarcely  cold. 

Bowed  by  it,  she  still  struggled  to  lift  that  weight  and 
rise.  Presently  she  did  so,  giving  Van  Studdiford  eye 
for  eye. 

"  Murderer !  "  she  said,  softly. 

"  A  coroner's  jury  yesterday  acquitted  me  of  any  fault 
in  the  accident." 

"  Mur — der — er,"  she  repeated,  still  more  softly,  to 
herself.  Then,  suddenly,  her  voice  rose  till  it  became  a 
scream :  "  Philip !  —  Philip !  —  Philip  dead !  —  Ah-ha-ha- 
ha-ha-ha !  "  and  she  ran  into  a  wild  peal  of  laughter  that 
presently  encountered  a  sob. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Virginia,  stop  it ! "  cried  Charles, 
his  fists  clenched. 

But  no  fury  or  command  of  man  will  stop  a  woman's 
hysterics.  And  who  could  govern  Virginia's  mind  or 
will?  Widowed  at  heart,  stripped  of  hope,  hating  her 
life  no  more  than  she  hated  the  man  before  her,  her  laughs 
and  sobs  grew  wilder  and  fiercer,  till  Charles  realized  that 
she  must  have  help.  Nevertheless,  before  he  left  the 
room  to  get  Mrs.  Smith,  he  turned  ag^in  to  his  wife, 
saying,  sternly: 

"  Understand,  Virginia,  that  I  shall  not  divorce  you. 
By  the  death  of  Atkinson  I  have  cleared  my  honor.    And 
you  must  understand  also  that  he  was  fairly  killed ;  for 
I  took  the  same  chance  as  he." 
20  297 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Though  Virginia  never  paused  in  her  paroxysms,  she 
nevertheless  heard  and  understood  both  points  in  his 
speech:  understood  fully  the  words  that  took  away  her 
last,  faint  hope  of  freedom  or  mistaken  happiness  with 
the  dead. 


298 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

When,  in  response  to  Van  Studdiford's  hasty  sum- 
mons, Mrs.  Smith  reached  Virginia's  room  after  that 
brief,  tragic  interview,  she  found  her  mistress  beyond 
control.  The  wild  medley  of  heart-broken  sobs  and 
screams  of  laughter  was  audible  in  every  room  in  the 
house ;  and  good  Mrs.  Smith  was  undisguisedly  distressed 
and  nonplussed  at  the  picture  presented  by  the  delicate, 
slender  woman,  who,  crouched  in  her  great  chair,  writhed 
and  twisted  and  shook  under  the  force  of  her  nervous 
reaction. 

Even  a  long  hour  later,  when  the  sensible  woman  had 
got  her  charge  to  bed,  bathed  her  face  and  hands  with 
cold  water,  wet  her  temples  with  cologne,  administered 
salts  freely,  and  had  added  to  these  things  the  soothing 
pats  and  strokes  and  comfortings  of  gentle  hands  and 
heartfelt  pity  and  sympathy,  Virginia  still  remained  a 
pathetic  object.  Though  she  was,  by  this  time,  quite 
still,  save  for  the  occasional  jerk  of  a  muscle,  her  face 
had  set  into  a  kind  of  white  deadness,  and  her  eyes, 
which  stared,  steadily,  at  the  windows,  were  expression- 
less, almost  glazed.  She  lay  without  sound  or  move- 
ment, save  when,  from  time  to  time,  her  whole  frame 
was  shaken  by  a  long,  involuntary,  shuddering  sob. 

299 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Mrs.  Smith,  however,  was  no  longer  so  dismayed. 
She  had  seen  more  than  one  person  lie  thus,  under  the 
stress  of  great  grief:  had,  indeed,  so  lain  herself,  when, 
six  months  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  her  boy,  her 
one  boy,  had  been  taken  also,  with  typhoid,  darkening  for- 
ever all  the  light  of  her  little  world.  Watching  Virginia, 
now,  Ellen  Smith  did  her  best  to  bring  back  memories 
which,  hitherto,  she  had  striven  daily  to  put  farther  from 
her.  But  she  must  know  exactly  how  Virginia  felt  at  this 
bitter  time,  that  she  might,  if  possible,  think  of  something 
that  would  be  of  use.  Try  as  she  would,  however,  she 
could  remember  nothing  save  that  the  period  immediately 
following  the  climax  is  marked  simply  by  its  overpower- 
ing sense  of  emptiness.  Virginia,  indeed,  was  not  even 
thinking.  Vague  processes  went  on  in  her  mind.  She 
became  weakly  distressed  that  she  could  not,  in  the  least, 
recall  how  Atkinson  had  looked.  Beyond  this,  and  a 
slow  groping  along  the  first  mile  or  two  of  the  Way 
of  Despair,  she  knew  and  felt  nothing.  Had  she,  as 
would  have  seemed  only  reasonable,  been  in  the  least 
prepared  for  tragic  news  of  her  lover,  the  poignancy  of 
grief  might  have  come  at  once.  But  she  had  clung  so 
abjectly  to  the  last  shred  of  hope,  and  had  put  other 
possibilities  out  of  her  head  so  successfully,  that  the  news 
of  his  death  was  a  blow  the  suddenness  of  which  stunned 
her,  and  was  to  leave  her  dazed  and  stupid  for  a  long 
time  to  come. 

At  Virginia's  own  request  Mrs.  Smith  was  her  con- 
stant companion.  The  only  duty  save  this  attendance 
that  the  good  lady  attempted,  was  her  regular  morning 

300 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


report  to  Van  Studdiford,  concerning  his  wife's  condi- 
tion. Trusting,  implicitly,  to  these  reports,  it  was  two 
full  weeks  before  he  saw  his  wife  again. 

The  time  was  not  passed  wholly  in  imprisonment. 
Virginia  was  given  to  understand  that  there  was  a  vehicle 
at  her  disposal  every  afternoon;  and  out-door  air  was 
recommended.  The  only  condition  of  the  outings  was, 
that  Mrs.  Smith  should  always  be  with  her.  It  was  a 
stipulation  that  need  scarcely  have  been  made;  for  Vir- 
ginia, in  her  deadened  condition,  never  dreamed  of 
escape;  and,  to  keep  her  mind  off  itself  a  little  she 
would,  in  any  case,  have  demanded  her  companion's 
presence.  The  walks  and  drives  were  nearly  always 
extended  to  the  country ;  for  Virginia  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  seeing  anyone  she  knew,  and  enduring  the 
cut  which,  of  course,  must  be  given  and  taken.  So  they 
regularly  started  Southward,  down  the  James  Road,  cross- 
ing, almost  daily,  the  tracks  that  had  formed  the  scene 
of  the  accident.  Strangely  enough,  however,  it  never 
once  occurred  to  Virginia  that  this  could  be  the  spot 
mentioned  by  Charles;  and  Mrs.  Smith,  whatever  she 
knew  or  suspected,  held  her  peace. 

Besides  the  outings,  which  after  all,  rarely  covered 
more  than  an  hour  and  a  half,  there  was  extremely  little 
that  Virginia  cared  or  would  try  to  do.  Lucy  and  her 
early  training  had  combined  to  make  her  indolent;  and 
the  energetic  nature  of  her  new  attendant  was  confounded 
twenty  times  a  day  by  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford's  indiffer- 
ence or  positive  disinclination  to  any  form  of  homely 
iwork:  plain  sewing,  knitting,  dusting  the  ornaments  in 

301 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


her  room,  washing  her  brushes  or  cleaning  her  silver. 
All  these  things  but  the  last,  which  was  now  Carson's 
charge,  Mrs.  Smith  did  herself;  but  Virginia  was  never 
interested  enough  to  look  on. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  contrary  to  the  usual  theory  that 
work  is  the  one,  infallible  remedy  for  grief,  it  is  prob- 
able that  the  performance  of  such  little  tasks  as  Mrs. 
Smith  devised  for  her  would,. had  she  undertaken  them, 
have  added  to,  rather  than  diminished,  Virginia's  sorrow. 
For,  in  the  last  two  months,  ever  since  the  impossibility 
of  life  without  Philip  had  become  clear  to  her,  Virginia 
had  begun  to  indulge  in  bride-like  dreams  of  sweetest 
poverty,  when,  for  Philip's  sake,  she  should  perform, 
gladly  and  happily,  all  the  homely  duties  that  she  had 
disclaimed  throughout  her  unhappy  marriage.  Through 
her  love  for  Atkinson  it  might  have  been  easy  for  her  to 
become  a  womanly  woman.  But  that  high  end  was  now 
only  to  be  gained  by  the  passage  of  a  longer,  rougher 
road. 

Fourteen  days  had  passed  since  the  last  scene  between 
Charles  and  his  wife.  During  that  time  Van  Studdi- 
ford  had  been  very  busy,  and  had  accomplished  a 
great  deal.  It  now  remained  only  to  bring  his  plan  to 
a  head.  Fourteen  days  he  had  waited,  and  March  had 
come  in  and  begun  its  round  of  blustering  storms  and 
sudden  hints  of  Spring,  before  Virginia  gave  her  first 
sign  of  uneasiness,  and  first  manifested  a  desire  to  see 
him.  But  by  Saturday,  the  fourth  of  March,  Mrs.  Smith, 
closely  watching  for  the  sign,  perceived  that  Virginia's 
eyes  had  taken  on  a  new  brightness,  her  cheeks  a  sus- 

302 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


picion  of  the  old  color ;  and  she  guessed  that,  for  the  first 
time  since  the  tragedy,  a  thought  of  herself  had  entered 
Virginia's  heart. 

This  shrewd  surmise  was  duly  reported  to  the  Mas- 
ter, who  spent  that  night  in  consideration,  arriving, 
some  hours  before  dawn,  at  a  decision  to  undertake 
another  interview  that  morning,  the  morning  of  Sunday, 
the  fifth  day  of  Spring.  His  experience  of  a  fortnight 
before,  however,  had  not  been  such  as  to  give  Charles  any 
hope  of  comfort  in  the  forthcoming  colloquy.  His  dread 
of  nervousness  and  tears  was  greater  even  than  that  of 
the  majority  of  men ;  and  he  went  over  every  possibility 
of  either  that  could  arise  from  what  he  had  to  say,  that 
he  might  so  soften  and  modify  his  explanations  as  to 
disturb  her  as  little  as  might  be.  Not  till  his  reflections 
were  ended,  and  he  had  settled  himself  for  a  last,  late  nap 
before  descending  to  his  lonely  breakfast,  did  a  certain 
question  come  unbidden  to  his  mind:  a  question  tardy, 
disturbing,  and  unanswerable.  After  all,  why  in  the  world 
should  he  be  taking  such  infinite  pains  for  the  future  of 
a  faithless  wife?  Why  not  act  in  accordance  with  her 
own  wish;  or,  more  chivalrously,  allow  her  to  obtain  a 
divorce  from  him  on  any  fanciful  ground  ?  Why,  Charles 
Van  Studdiford?  Why? — Art  thou,  after  all,  so  much 
more  a  man  than  thy  fellows?  so  much  more  of  a  hero 
than  him  believed  to  be  such  by  thy  wife :  that  wife  for 
whom,  in  thy  seared  heart,  still  lurks  so  unfathomable  a 
tenderness  ? 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  that  morning  when  Virginia, 
303 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


just  finishing  her  solitary  breakfast,  was  startled  by  the 
appearance  of  Carson,  who  came,  incidentally,  for  the 
tray,  and  especially  to  announce  to  her,  in  the  most  formal 
of  tones : 

"Mr.  Van  Studdiford,  Madam!" 

Virginia,  taken  by  surprise,  rose  hurriedly  as  Charles 
came  in.  For  some  seconds  neither  of  them  spoke.  Car- 
son fumbled  with  the  tray  as  long  as  he  dared,  but  was 
finally  obliged  to  retire  without  a  single  word  to  report 
below.  As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  however,  and  the  door 
shut,  Charles  began,  quietly: 

"  There  are  certain  matters  that  must  come  up  between 
us;  and  I  have  more  time,  to-day,  in  which  to  discuss 
them  than  I  can  count  on  during  the  week. — H'm ! — Ha ! 
— Shall  we  sit  down  ?  " 

Virginia  retreated  a  little,  and  seated  herself  in  a 
rocking-chair  with  her  back  to  the  windows  of  the  jut, 
at  the  same  time  indicating  the  morris  chair  to  her  hus- 
band. Then,  before  he  had  settled  himself  to  speak,  she 
said,  quickly: 

"  Have  you  reconsidered  ?  Are  you,  after  all,  going 
to  free  yourself — and  me  ?  "  And  her  face  took  on  a 
sudden  light. 

"  No,"  was  the  reply.  The  light  faded.  "  You  may 
put  every  idea  of  divorce  out  of  your  head.  You're  my 
wife ;  and  my  wife  you  must  stay.  This  divorce  custom 
is  damned  nonsense:  worse.  Nowadays,  every  time  two 
people  fall  out,  or  get  stirred  up  over  some  discussion, 
one  of  'em  rushes  off  to  a  lawyer  who  hashes  up  evidence 
enough  for  a  decree.    And  it  hasn't  been  my  observation 

304 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


that  divorced  people  are  any  happier  than  they  were 
married. — No,  Virginia.  You  shall  not  ruin  your  char- 
acter and  my  name  any  further  by  that  means." 

At  this  rough,  but  not  unkindly  spoken  opinion,  and 
particularly  at  the  last  brusque  decision,  Virginia  turned 
first  scarlet  and  then  very  white.  When  she  spoke,  how- 
ever, her  voice  was  well  under  control.  "  What  do  you 
intend,  then,  to  do  with  me?  Am  I  to  stay  in  this  room 
all  the  rest  of  my  life  ?  " 

"  No !  "  cried  Van  Studdiford,  loudly.  Then,  leaning 
forward  in  his  chair,  his  head  bent  so  that  his  face  was 
scarcely  visible,  his  finger-tips  legally  touching,  he  began 
to  speak,  in  a  voice  muffled,  and  oddly  tinged  with  feeling. 

"  No.  This  room  belonged  to  my  bride,  to  my  real 
wife,  to  the  Mother  of  my  little  girl. — ^You  cannot  stay 
in  it."  He  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her  for  a  second, 
and  was  relieved  to  find  misery  in  her  drawn  face.  "  You 
are  not  the  woman  I  married.  I  tell  you,  Virginia,  little 
as  you  cared,  you've  dealt  me  a  pretty  big  blow ;  and,  for 
a  few  weeks,  anyway,  I  don't  care  to  think  of  you  as  in 
my  house. — So  I've  made  other  arrangements  for  you: 
a  temporary  thing,  probably  for  the  summer  only."  He 
looked  at  her  again ;  but  her  eyes  were  cast  down,  and 
she  was  silent.  There  had  been  something  in  Charles' 
words  which  for  the  first  time  brought  home  the  fact 
that  she  had  really  owed  him  a  duty,  and  that  she  had 
failed  in  it,  shockingly.  Now,  anxious  as  she  was  to 
learn  what  hope  her  immediate  future  held,  she  felt  that 
it  was  not  her  place  to  ask. 

"  Perhaps  you  remember,"  he  went  on,  after  the  little 
305 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


pause,  "  perhaps  you  remember  the  cottage  on  Thomp- 
son's farm  that  we  saw  on  our  drive  there  a  couple  of 
years  ago  ? " 

"  The  cottage  where — Thompson's  Mother  used  to 
live?" 

"  Yes,  that  one.  Well,  Virginia,  that  is  being  over- 
hauled for  you." 

"  For  me !  "    Virginia  started  to  her  feet. 

"  For  the  summer  only,  in  all  probability. — Sit  down, 
please. — The  cottage,  I  repeat,  is  being  done  over  for 
you." 

"  But — But — "  she  stared  at  him,  rather  wildly,  and 
then  sank  into  her  chair  again.  "  But  Charles — the  lone- 
liness !    Heavens !    I  shall  die  in  it !  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then,  still  contem- 
plating his  finger-tips,  Charles  observed,  quietly :  "  I  do 
not  think  so. — I  shall  arrange  to  have  Mrs.  Smith  and  a 
competent  servant  go  out  with  you.  For  this  purpose 
I  am  putting  an  '  L  '  on  the  cottage,  and  adding  two  bath- 
rooms. The  living-room,  widened  a  little  and  decently 
furnished,  won't  be  bad.  And  you  can  have  your  piano 
there." 

"  A  piano ! — Oh. — So  I  can  practice  on  a  piano,  and 
eat,  and  sleep. — Mighty  privilege ! — And  that's  to  be  my 
summer.  Well,  God  knows  it's  all  my  life  has  held  since 
I  was  married! 

"  Charles  Van  Studdiford,  you  married  me,  a  child  of 
eighteen,  and  brought  me  out  to  this  country  village,  and 
buried  me  alive.  There  has  never  been  a  person  here 
that  I  cared  to  speak  to,  except  Marion  Hunt.    And  she 

306 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


was  soon  angry  with  me  because — because  she  couldn't 
make  Philip  propose  to  her. — Then  the  baby  came,  and  I 
was  happy.  I  could  have  been  happy  always,  and — and 
good,  and  content  here,  if  Caroline  had  lived. — But  I  was 
left  here  all  alone  to  see  her  die. — My  little  baby ! — And 
when  she  was  gone,  and  I  was  quite  alone,  who  was  it 
that  came  to  comfort  me?  I  needed  help  as  I  had  never 
needed  it.  But  you  didn't  come.  My  Mother  didn't  come. 
It  was  Philip  who  came — immediately.  From  that  hour,  I 
think,  I  loved  him. — After  that,  too,  Charles,  you  were 
never  with  me.  You  worked  at  the  factory  day  and  night. 
You  never  thought  of  me,  or  paid  any  attention  to  me. 
You  just  left  me  shut  up  in  this  hideous  house,  alone, 
alone,  alone,  and  thought  I  could  exist  in  it ! 

"  And  nowj  because  I  came  to  love,  more  and  more, 
the  one  person  who  did  give  me  some  little  attention,  who 
seemed  to  care  whether  I  lived  or  died :  because  I  came 
to  care  for  him  till  life  without  him  was  a  torment,  you 
kept  him  always  away  from  me.  Then  I  decided  to 
go  away  with  him.  We  were  going  to  live  our  lives  to- 
gether, without  hindrance,  without  this  constant  deceit 
that  we  both  hated.  For  this  you  are  going  to  keep  me 
an  absolute  prisoner.  You  have  murdered  him  for  it. 
Then  kill  me,  too. — Ah,  but  you  have  something  more 
terrible  in  store  for  me !  You  want  to  drive  me  out  of 
my  mind!  You  are  going  to  make  me  insane.  Then 
you  can  truly  get  rid  of  me!    Then " 

"  Hush !  Stop  it,  Virginia !  This  is  damned  non- 
sense. You've  never  been  ill-treated  since  your  marriage, 
nor  left  alone.    There  are  plenty  of  people  worth  knowing 

307 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


and  liking  in  Grangeford ;  and  you  could  have  had  all  the 
society  and  all  the  friends  you  liked  if  you  had  ever  shown 
any  desire  for  them.  But  your  behavior  has  been  such 
that  these  clean  country  people  haven't  wanted  to  know 
you. — You  chose  your  path  for  yourself.  Don't  complain 
about  it  now. 

"  In  ten  days  the  farm  cottage  should  be  ready  for 
you ;  for  I've  had  eight  or  ten  men  at  work  on  it  for  some 
time.  One  week  from  Wednesday,  the  fifteenth  of 
March  that  is,  you  will  be  driven  out  there ;  and  I'll  send 
out  any  trunks  or  luggage  that  you  like.  Mrs.  Smith, 
who  goes  with  you,  has  heard  your  whole  story.  I've 
known  her  and  her  husband  for  years,  and  she  is  abso- 
lutely trustworthy.  But  the  cook,  and  Thompson  and  his 
family,  know  nothing  unless  you,  in  your  folly,  betray 
yourself  to  them  when  you're  there." 

During  this  speech  Virginia's  face  had  been  buried 
in  her  hands,  and  Charles  had  not  caught  a  glimpse  of  it. 
Now  she  asked,  in  a  choked  voice :  "  You  say  that  this 
is  only  for  the  summer  ?  " 

"  Yes. — And  it  is  possible  that,  next  winter,  we  shall 
both  of  us  be  in  a  different  frame  of  mind."  He  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  took  a  dozen  quick  strides  across  the  room 
and  back.  Then,  pausing,  he  looked  down  at  her  with 
rather  an  unreadable  expression.  "  Virginia,"  he  said, 
"  you're  my  wife,  and  my  wife  you  shall  stay. — When 
we  are  over  this — Bah !  "  He  could  not  finish  the  thought 
he  had  begun,  for  as  yet  he  was  in  no  wise  sure  of  himself. 

Virginia  now  lifted  her  head ;  even  rose,  wearily ;  and 
Charles  frowned  as  he  saw  her  dull  eyes,  and  the  utter 

308 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


lack  of  interest  in  her  face.  "  Is  this  all  you  have  to  say  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  There's  only  one  thing  more.  When  does  your 
Mother  get  back  from  California?" 

Virginia  quivered,  perceptibly.  "  About  the  middle 
of  this  month,  I  think,"  she  faltered. 

"  When  she  comes,  do  you  wish  to  see  her  ?  " 

"  Oh ! — Oh,  no !  "  the  voice  vibrated  with  pain. 

Charles  eyed  her,  narrowly,  for  an  instant.  Then  he 
observed,  drily :  "  I  should  write  her,  at  least,  if  I  were 
you." 

"  Go  away  from  me ! — Go  away !  "  Virginia's  voice 
had  suddenly  risen  almost  to  a  scream;  and  in  the  tone 
was  the  note  of  impending  tears.  "  I-eave  me  alone ! — 
Oh,  cruel — hideous — leave  me  alone !  " 

So,  after  a  moment,  during  which  a  subtle,  ugly 
change  crept  into  Van  Studdiford's  face,  he  did  turn  upon 
his  heel,  and  tramp  out  of  the  room. 

Virginia,  alone,  managed  to  subdue  the  active  emo- 
tion roused  by  Charles  without  the  tears  that  had  so 
nearly  come  in  his  presence.  And  very  soon  she  was 
back  in  that  apathy  that  had  been  broken  only  on  the 
day  before. 

Charles  had  carried  things  with  too  high  a  hand.  He 
had  shown  her  his  purpose  too  clearly.  But  she  made  no 
attempt  to  surmise  the  hidden  motive  that  kept  him  from 
the  divorce  court.  Really,  though  Charles  himself  would, 
as  yet,  not  have  defined  it,  that  motive  might  by  now  be 
expressed  in  words :  Virginia,  he  decided,  with  that  inner 
practicality  of  his,  had  been  undergoing  a  violent  attack 

309 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


of  romanticism.  And  deep  in  his  heart  he  retained  the 
faith  that,  if  treated  correctly,  any  romantico-idealist 
might,  by  judicial  treatment,  become,  in  time,  a  very 
earnest  student  of  realism. 

How  poor  Virginia  would  have  scoffed  at  such  a 
thought !  For,  even  after  the  past  sixteen  days,  she  was 
still  stanch  enough  to  her  creed  to  be  faithful  to  every 
former  tradition.  And  that  evening  Mrs.  Smith  was  in 
despair  with  her,  and  wondered  what  in  the  world  the 
Master  could  have  devised,  in  his  interviews,  to  produce 
such  incomprehensible  moods. 

It  was  a  day  or  two  before  that  excellent  woman  was 
informed  of  the  summer  plan,  and  lightly  requested  to 
find  a  cook  suited  to  the  small  establishment.  Charles 
had  all  a  man's  cheerful  belief  that  there  could  be  no 
difficulty  in  securing  any  number  of  competent  women  to 
fill  so  desirable  a  place.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  however, 
had  it  not  been  for  an  inspiration  on  the  part  of  Virginia's 
companion,  the  entire  arrangement  might  have  been 
abandoned  for  want  of  its  most  necessary  adjunct.  Ellen 
Smith,  however,  went  straight  to  her  sister,  who  lived  on 
the  factory  side  of  Grangeford  with  a  husband  and  six 
children,  and  demanded  of  them  the  eldest,  a  girl  of 
twenty-two,  who  had  been  out  at  service  for  three  or 
four  years.  Mary,  cooking  in  Chicago  for  an  "  elegant 
family,"  as  Tim  gloomily  expressed  it,  was  telegraphed 
for;  whereupon  Mary  obligingly  left  her  place,  packed 
her  small  trunk,  and  came  home.  Next  day  she  was 
registered  in  Van  Studdiford's  employ  at  an  increase 
of  two  dollars  a  week,  and  the  certainty  of  being  well 

310 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


looked  after  by  her  sturdy  aunt. — Now,  therefore,  it  re- 
mained only  for  Virginia  to  accommodate  herself  to  her 
husband's  plan. 

Resignation  did  come,  by  slow  degrees,  with  her  pack- 
ing. But  in  what  bitter  woe  she  recommenced  a  task 
beg^n  weeks  before  in  highest  happiness,  need  not  be 
described.  And  when  it  was  done  there  was,  after  all, 
further  delay  in  the  departure.  The  fifteenth  of  March 
came,  and  workmen  still  filled  the  cottage;  nor  had  the 
new  furniture  gone  in.  Van  Studdiford,  highly  incensed, 
himself  made  two  trips  to  the  farm  and  one  to  Chicago 
during  the  following  fortnight.  But  only  on  the  first 
of  April  was  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  informed  that  her 
country  house  was  ready  for  her  occupancy. 

By  the  usual  perversity  of  feeling  it  was  now  with 
real  regret  that  Virginia  thought  of  leaving  the  erstwhile 
abhorred  Grangeford.  During  the  last  week  she  had 
had  more  freedom  than  hitherto,  and  Charles,  when  she 
chanced  to  meet  him,  had  looked  less  haggard,  and  his 
expression  had  been  less  stern,  less  discouraged.  The 
period  of  hottest  grief,  rebellion  and  indignation  was  over, 
perhaps  for  both  of  them.  Yet  there  could  be  no  hope  of 
change  in  the  summer  plan ;  and  obediently,  though  with 
a  heavy  heart,  Virginia  completed  her  arrangements. 

Spring  rose  from  the  hard  earth  early  that  year. 
Monday,  the  third  of  the  month,  the  day  of  departure, 
was  sunny,  and  warm,  and  cloudless.  Trunks,  bags  and 
boxes,  piled  in  a  truck,  had  started  in  the  morning.  But 
not  till  after  luncheon,  which  was  over  at  half  past  one, 
did  Virginia  and  the  two  members  of  her  little  household 

311 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


enter  the  surrey  in  which  Sefton  sat,  himself  contemplat- 
ing a  change  of  masters.  For  Sefton  had  not  been  happy 
since  the  departure  of  pretty  Lucy  Markle. 

Virginia's  veil  was  down,  as  she  came  out  of  the 
library  whither  she  had  gone,  presumably  to  say  good-bye 
to  her  husband.  And,  whatever  others  guessed,  strange 
as  it  seemed  to  the  man  and  the  woman,  there  had  been 
real  emotion  on  each  side  over  that  farewell. 

Van  Studdiford  did  not  appear  on  the  veranda  to  see 
them  off ;  but  he  did  stand  at  a  window  in  his  study  and, 
in  the  face  of  superstition,  watch  the  surrey  roll  out  of 
sight  down  the  James  Road. 

They  were  out  of  the  town  limits  before  Virginia  un- 
veiled her  face.  Then,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  could  not 
but  perceive  the  beauty  of  the  day.  In  this  part  of  the 
state,  far  from  the  blighting  North-Easters  that  retard 
the  progress  of  the  year  for  many  weeks  along  the  shores 
of  the  Great  Lakes,  signs  of  the  new  life  were  everywhere 
visible.  The  lilac-leaves  were  bursting  out  from  the  bud ; 
pussy-willows  were  at  the  height  of  their  silver-fuzz 
celebrity ;  willows  and  birches  gave  exquisite  promise  of 
feathery  beauty  soon  to  appear ;  and  even  the  maples  were 
no  longer  gauntly  bare-branched.  The  air,  for  the  first 
hour  of  the  drive,  was  like  new  milk ;  and  it  was  a  delight 
to  breathe  it  in,  and  to  turn  the  eyes  from  the  living  earth 
to  the  glistening  turquoise  of  the  sky.  For  the  first  three 
or  four  miles  Virginia  was  wrapped  in  a  still  intoxica- 
tion that  was  new  to  her:  the  rejoicing  of  Young 
Nature.  Then,  swiftly,  even  as  the  country  road  grew 
rougher  and  filled  with  ruts  and  puddles,  the  capricious 

312 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


month  shifted  her  scenery.  Gray  clouds  swept  up  and 
hid  the  blue.  With  the  shrouding  of  the  sun,  the  air  grew 
suddenly  cold.  And  presently,  before  another  mile  could 
be  traversed,  a  sharp  North  wind  sprang  up  and  was 
piercing  their  backs. 

Virginia  shivered  under  her  wraps ;  and  unconsciously 
her  mind  attuned  itself  anew  to  the  day.  Bitter  mem- 
ories of  this  drive  came  upon  her,  and  she  yielded  to  them, 
helplessly.  Atkinson!  Atkinson  must  haunt  her,  here, 
at  the  cottage,  forever.  As  in  a  dream  she  passed  back 
to  a  long-gone  August  day,  and  reviewed  the  scene  at  the 
farm :  jealous  Marion,  Philip,  all  too  careless,  she  herself, 
seated  in  the  cottage  during  the  storm.  Ah !  How  ter- 
rified she  had  been.  Surely  it  was  a  presentiment  of  the 
dire  present,  of  the  immediate  future,  when  she  was  to 
live,  a  prisoner,  in  that  very  place. 

Consumed  by  such  thoughts  and  memories  Virginia's 
head  sank  lower  and  lower  upon  her  breast ;  and  then,  by 
other  degrees,  the  memories  were  superseded  by  apathy : 
that  dreary  apathy  that  seemed  in  danger  of  becoming 
her  characteristic  mood.  Mrs.  Smith  saw  its  approach 
and  watched  her  with  distress.  But  the  good  woman 
would  say  nothing.  In  the  face  of  facts,  she  felt  herself 
woefully  helpless.  Therefore  she  sat  listening  to  the 
chatter  of  Mary,  who  talked  constantly  to  the  punctilious 
Sefton,  though  he  scarcely  vouchsafed  a  word  of  re- 
sponse, owing  to  the  presence  of  his  mistress.  Nor  could 
Sefton  have  been  expected  to  appreciate  the  contentment 
of  this  raw  girl.  Was  not  he,  also,  like  all  his  world, 
playing  at  being  a  blighted  Being? 
21  313 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


It  was  twelve  miles  to  the  farm ;  and  the  surrey,  con- 
sidering its  load,  made  excellent  time.  At  four  o'clock 
the  great  stables  were  in  sight ;  and,  ten  minutes  later,  the 
carriage  stopped.  Virginia  looked  up,  hastily,  and  was 
surprised  to  find  that  they  were  actually  at  their  destina- 
tion. But  the  cottage !  How  changed  it  was !  as  pretty, 
now,  as  it  had  been  commonplace.  Truly,  Charles  had 
done  wonders  with  it. 

The  acre  or  two  of  ground  by  which  it  was  imme- 
diately surrounded,  was,  to  be  sure,  in  a  preparatory  state, 
for  which  warm  sun  and  rain  would  do  work  powerless 
to  human  hands.  But  on  one  side  there  was  a  close 
semicircle  of  woods ;  on  the  other  the  regular  rows  of 
orchard-trees.  And  by  these  the  little  place  was  excel- 
lently framed,  and  its  remodelled  proportions  showed  up 
to  the  best  advantage. 

Soon  Virginia  and  her  maids  were  within;  and  the 
mistress  of  the  little  place  seated  herself  in  the  pretty, 
cretonne-covered  living-room:  a  room  as  livable,  indeed, 
as  the  most  fastidious  could  desire.  By  degrees,  too, 
though  Virginia  gave  no  orders,  and  only  walked  about 
the  room,  little  matters  were  straightened  out  and  ar- 
ranged. Mary  was  in  the  kitchen,  examining  her  well- 
filled  cupboards  and  ice-box.  Her  aunt  soon  went  up- 
stairs, and,  understanding  at  once  the  arrangement  of  the 
rooms,  unlocked  Virginia's  trunk  and  her  own,  and  began 
the  process  of  unpacking.  Less  than  an  hour  later,  when 
the  lady  of  this  doll's  house  had  removed  her  travelling- 
clothes,  and  sat,  clad  in  a  loose  negligee,  before  one  of 
the  wide  windows  in  her  own  room,  looking  out  upon 

314 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


the  half-toned  country  landscape,  Mary  appeared,  carry- 
ing a  little  tray  of  afternoon  tea.  (Apparently  Mary's 
family  had,  after  all,  been  "  elegant  "  to  some  purpose !) 

When  the  new  maid  had  disappeared,  and  Virginia 
sat  with  this  old,  accustomed  luxury  on  a  little  stand  at 
her  knee,  and  could  stare  out  again  upon  the  tiny  lawn 
and  garden,  the  brown  line  of  country  road,  the  flat  fields 
opposite,  which,  in  the  far  distance,  rose  and  swelled  into 
hills  which  finally  melted  away  in  a  blue  haze  on  the 
horizon,  it  seemed  suddenly  as  if  she  were  at  home  after 
a  long,  dreary  journey  across  the  desert.  In  the  last 
few  minutes  the  sun  had  broken  through  again,  and  now 
lay,  in  long,  golden  bars  across  the  Spring-land.  The 
odor  of  freshly  ploughed  earth  was  mingled  with  the 
faint  perfume  of  earliest  flowers.  Somewhere  among 
the  trees  nearby  a  thrush  was  singing,  furiously.  The 
shadows  grew  longer.  Twilight  drew  on  apace.  And,  all 
at  once  Virginia,  the  weary,  defeated  woman,  felt,  steal- 
ing over  her,  a  great  sense  of  Peace :  the  peace  of  Nature 
undisturbed,  that  loves  to  wrap  her  tired,  erring  children 
close,  and  comfort  them  at  last. 


3IS 


CHAPTER  XIX 

That  night,  for  the  first  time  in  many  months,  perhaps 
even  years,  Mrs.  Van  Studdiford  went  to  bed  with  a  sense 
of  comfort  in  her  heart ;  and,  almost  as  soon  as  her  head 
touched  the  pillow,  she  fell  asleep.  At  that  moment, 
however,  Charles,  her  husband,  would,  to  one  who  could 
look  through  the  key-hole  of  his  library,  have  presented 
a  very  different  picture. 

A  bright  wood  fire  was  the  only  light  in  the  heavily 
furnished  room.  Before  it,  in  a  great,  leather  arm-chair, 
sat  the  master  of  this  empty  house,  smoking.  Charles* 
head  lay  back  against  the  thickly  padded  top  of  his  chair ; 
and  his  eyes,  half-shut,  gleamed  with  the  reflection  of  the 
flames  into  which  he  was  earnestly  gazing.  He  was 
making  no  attempt  to  stave  off  the  advancing  legions  of 
Memory  that  had  tried  many  times  before  to  reach  him, 
and  encompass  him  about,  and  torture  him  at  will.  In 
the  weeks  that  had  passed  since  the  tenth  day  of  Febru- 
ary, there  had  been  no  day  that  had  failed  to  bring  to 
pass  some  incident  that  had  power  to  sting  him  in  the 
old,  sore  place.  Long  ago  had  Charles  Van  Studdiford, 
cold,  by  nature,  as  he  was,  and  skeptical  of  womankind, 
enshrined  his  ideal  of  all  purity  in  the  figure  of  his  wife. 
And  since  she  had  plucked  this  flower  from  herself, 
and  cast  it  down,  and  trampled  on  it,  her  husband,  though 
he  scarcely  so  much  as  admitted  it  to  himself,  had  been  a 

316 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


thoroughly  unhappy  man.  True,  he  had  avenged  the 
destruction  of  his  faith.  He  had  killed  the  slayer  of  his 
own  honor.  But,  as  time  passed,  the  thought  of  the  death 
of  Philip  had  become  the  ugliest  memory  of  all  that  ugly 
time.  It  was  recalled  to  him  by  his  shoulder,  constantly, 
at  the  most  untoward  times  and  places.  Hitherto  he  had 
striven  always  to  put  from  him  any  suggestion  of  remorse. 
But  to-night,  at  last,  he  was  determined  to  allow  himself 
the  bitter  luxury  of  retrospection.  As  he  gazed  down  into 
his  smouldering  fire  he  went  over,  detail  by  detail,  each 
painful  incident  of  the  crucial  week,  and  its  consequent 
events. 

There  had  been  the  inquest,  held  on  the  very  afternoon 
after  the — accident.  Charles,  in  his  bandages,  really  suf- 
fering a  good  deal  of  pain,  had  been  on  the  stand  a  full 
hour :  the  most  trying  hour,  perhaps,  of  his  life.  That  he 
had  come  through  it,  and  his  searching  examination,  tri- 
umphantly, had,  even  at  the  time,  brought  him  small  sat- 
isfaction. He  remembered  how  unnaturally  little  he  had 
been  affected  by  the  verdict :  "  That  the  deceased  came 
to  his  death  by  shock  and  injuries  received  in  the  acci- 
dental collision  of  the  runabout  driven  by  cousin  of  the 
deceased,  Charles  Van  Studdiford,  and  the  Rock  Island 
Early  Mail :  no  blame  thereby  attaching  to  the  said  Mr. 
Van  Studdiford." 

Ah!  That  one  word  in  the  decision:  that  saving 
word :    "  Accidental  I  " 

At  the  moment  when  the  verdict  was  returned,  ten 
minutes  after  the  retirement  of  the  jury,  Charles  had  been 
sitting  in  his  place,  near  the  coroner's  arm-chair,  his  head 

317 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


bent,  his  body  racked  with  pain.  He  did  not  notice  the 
few  spectators  that  were  in  the  room;  but,  even  had  he 
perceived  the  skepticism  written  in  their  faces  at  the  last 
spoken  clause^  it  would  scarcely  have  disturbed  him. 
The  reaction,  his  sudden  weariness  and  disgust  with 
himself  and  the  world  were  too  great  to  be  aug- 
mented. And,  ever  since  that  day,  they  had  scarcely 
lessened.  He  had  killed  his  cousin:  the  man  whom  his 
wife  loved  as  she  had  never  loved  him.  And — alas !  alas ! 
despite  himself,  despite  his  behavior,  despite  even  Muriel 
Howard,  Charles  himself  loved  that  wife,  still ! 

It  was  this  unaccountable  and  unavoidable  knowledge 
that  brought  his  greatest  bitterness:  realization  of  an 
unmanly  weakness  in  him  who  was,  above  all  other 
things,  a  thorough  man's  man.  Had  he  possessed  a 
higher  standard  of  womanhood  he  might,  perhaps,  have 
felt  his  love  destroyed  together  with  his  faith.  As  it  was, 
he  accepted  the  deception  as  characteristic  of  the  sex,  and 
found  that  the  delight  of  Virginia's  personality  had  not 
wholly  changed  for  him. 

Till  very  late  he  sat  over  the  fire  in  his  lonely  room, 
struggling  with  a  mass  of  psychological  facts  such  as  he 
had  not  been  trained  to  cope  with.  But  at  last,  somewhere 
in  the  small  hours,  he  rose,  stiffly,  and  went  upstairs,  to 
continue  his  reverie  in  bed.  And,  as  he  ascended,  he 
shivered  at  the  feel  of  the  silent,  empty  house.  Passing 
Virginia's  door  he  realized,  in  his  secret  heart,  that  he 
would  gladly  have  given  half  his  fortune  to  have  known 
her,  his  wife,  within,  as  of  old. 


318 


THE  FIRE  OF  SPRING 


Unpleasant  as  Charles'  last  weeks  had  been,  and 
final  as  was  his  solution  of  the  problem,  he  was  never- 
theless aware  that  there  still  remained  for  him  a  scene 
or  two  to  be  dreaded  more  than  anything  which  had 
as  yet  come  to  pass.  The  first  of  these  had  been  delayed 
so  much  longer  than  was  natural,  that  now  and  again 
he  had  permitted  himself  the  hope  that  it  was  not,  after 
all,  to  be  faced. 

Vain  illusion !  The  delay  seemed  merely  to  have  been 
caused  by  his  malignant  Fate,  that  the  event,  when  it 
came  to  pass,  might,  by  unexpectedness,  seem  the  more 
unpleasant. 

On  the  morning  of  Saturday,  the  eighth  of  April, 
Charles  was  sitting  at  a  late  breakfast — the  result  of  one 
of  those  final  naps  after  a  sleepless  night — when  Carson, 
after  a  summons  to  the  door,  reentered  the  dining-room 
with  marked  signs  of  disturbance  in  his  well-trained  face. 
Charles,  glancing  at  him,  inquired,  rather  harshly: 
"  What  is  it  ?  "  But  even  as  the  question  left  his  lips,  he 
divined  the  answer. 

"  Madame  Dupre,  Sir,"  was  the  expected  reply. 

"  Umph ! — Where  have  you  put  her,  Carson  ?  " 

"  She  went  herself  into  the  library.  Sir." 

"  Tell  her  I  shall  be  with  her  in  one  moment. — No. — 
Don't."  Charles  hastily  swallowed  his  coflfee,  left  the 
table,  and  walked  to  the  west  door  of  his  invaded  sanc- 
tum. At  the  handle,  he  paused  another  second.  Then, 
visibly  straightening,  he  jerked  the  door  open,  and 
went  in. 

On  the  instant  of  his  appearance  another  figure,  seated 
319 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


with  her  back  to  the  window,  rose;  and  at  sight  of  her 
Charles  suddenly  halted.  She  was  in  deep  mourning; 
and,  framed  in  the  sombre  head-dress,  with  its  tiny  white 
ruche  lying  against  her  hair,  Georgiana's  face  was  more 
exquisite  than  ever. 

Charles  looked  her  keenly  over,  and  greeted  her  stead- 
ily. "  Good  morning,  Georgiana.  For  you,  this  is  rather 
an  early  call." 

She  made  no  reply  to  his  words,  but  began  her  ex- 
planation at  once,  in  a  low,  rapid  voice :  "  It  was  only 
last  night  that  I  finally  decided  to  come.  Then,  no  train 
left  soon  enough. — I  have  been  at  Hot  Spring  for  a  month. 
The  rest  of  the  time  has  been  spent  in  wondering — chiefly 
about  you." 

"  You  rather  flatter  me." 

"  I  have  wondered,  and  wondered,  and  wondered :  first, 
who  betrayed  them  to  you;  secondly,  if  you  really  did 
know  everything. — It  was  so  hideously  cold-blo— " 
Suddenly,  cool  as  she  had  been  up  to  this  point,  her  voice 
broke.    She  did  not  attempt  to  finish  her  sentence. 

"  Sit  down,  please,"  said  her  cousin,  in  a  panic  at 
the  prospect  of  tears.  He  himself  selected  his  favorite 
chair,  made  himself  physically  comfortable,  and  gave  her 
time  for  composure  before  he  observed,  quietly :  "  I  wish 
you  would  select  any  topic  but  this,  which,  believe  me,  is 
totally  unfit  for  discussion  between  you  and  me." 

"  Yes !  It  is  very  unfit,"  cried  she,  in  a  high,  hard 
voice,  "  to  talk  of  a  man  to  his — murderer !  " 

Charles  sprang  up  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  "  You 
lie ! "  he  cried.     Then,   realizing  the   woman   and   her 

320 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


excuse,  he  fell  back  again,  murmuring :  "  I  beg  your 
pardon." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Georgiana  sat  per- 
fectly still,  studying  the  face  of  her  cousin ;  and,  little  by 
little,  the  great  bitterness  within  her  found  triumphant 
relief  in  the  traces  of  his  recent  days.  He  was  frowning, 
angrily,  and  his  hands  grasped  the  arms  of  the  chair  till 
his  fingers  were  bloodless.  Nevertheless,  it  was  he  who 
spoke  first,  with  a  strong  effort  after  composure : 

"  There  was,  in  this  case,  no  murder.  You,  who  seem 
to  know  so  much,  should  surely  recognize  that.  And  yet, 
if  I  had  shot  him,  like  the  dog  he  was,  in  this  very  house, 
not  a  jury  in  the  country  but  would  have  returned  me  a 
verdict  of  justifiable  homicide ;  and  not  a  man  in  the  coun- 
try but  would  have  shaken  me  by  the  hand.  As  it  was — 
umph !  You  should  thank  me.  I  gave  him  a  chance  for 
his  life. — But  sometimes,  it  seems,  Providence  really 
arranges  these  little  matters." 

"  '  Chance  for  his  life ! '  My  God ! — He  was  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  runabout,  of  course !  " 

"  It  was  I  that  was  on  the  side  nearest  the  train. — 
We  were  going  South-West.  The  train  came  from  the 
North.  I  was  driving."  He  slightly  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

For  the  moment,  Georgiana  was  silenced ;  and,  on  that 
account,  the  angrier.  For  a  long  time  they  sat  staring 
at  each  other,  till  Van  Studdiford,  recalling  the  factory, 
asked,  politely : 

"  Is  there  anything  more  I  can  say  ? — What  was  the 
object  of  your  visit  ?  " 

321 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


She  made  no  answer ;  for  she  had  failed  in  the  object 
of  her  visit,  and  Charles  knew  it.  In  some  wild,  woman's 
way,  maddened  by  a  grief  wholly  sincere  and  very  great, 
sweeping  aside  logic,  even  sense,  she  had  in  some  way 
hoped  to  frighten  Charles  by  what  was  now  revealed  as 
a  merely  childish  accusation.  She  had  thought  to  get  him 
into  grave  trouble;  for,  in  her  impulsive  nature,  there  ran 
a  streak  of  revengefulness  that  would  have  done  justice 
to  a  member  of  the  Latin  race.  However,  after  a  stubborn 
silence,  another  thought  came:  an  idea  which,  after  all, 
seemed  to  promise  much. 

"  And  your  wife,  Charles.    May  I  see  her?  " 

"  She  is  staying  in  the  country." 

"Oh!— Where?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  see  her.  I  am  devoted  to 
Virginia." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  give  you  her  address." 

"But  why?" 

"  Obviously,  because  I  don't  care  to  have  you  see 
her." 

"  Whom  does  she  see,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  many  people." 

"  Any  people  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"But  whom?— Whom?" 

"  Madame  Dupre,  I  am  not  called  upon  to  answer 
your  catechisms.    You  must  excuse  me  this  one." 

"  Ah,  but  I  shall  not  excuse  you !  You  are  inexcus- 
able!  You  kill  your  own  cousin.   You  keep  your  wife  a 

322 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


prisoner,  alone,  in  some  dismal  country  hole.  You  put  on 
a  righteous  air  and  *  refuse  to  answer  questions.'  But 
I  won't  bear  it !  I  will  not !  I  will  not !  You  have  got 
to  answer  me.  You  have  got  to  make  restitution  to  my 
brother — my  Philip!  You  killed  him.  No  one  doubts 
that.  And  I  swear  to  you  that  I  shall  never  rest  till  I 
see  you  fully  punished  for  the  thing  you  have  done.  I 
swear  it ! — Philip,  beloved,  I  swear  it  to  you !  " 

She  was  very  impassioned,  and  she  looked  singu- 
larly beautiful  as  she  stood,  her  heavy  black  veil  falling 
about  her,  her  white  face  uplifted.  But  Charles  had 
ceased  to  be  impressed.  He  was,  in  fact,  disgusted  with 
her  folly  and  her  theatrical  manner.  After  all,  she  was 
only  a  cousin.  Therefore,  at  the  end  of  her  last  speech, 
without  any  pause  to  smooth  the  contrast,  he  rose,  and 
observed,  in  his  most  business-like  tone : 

"  I  regret  it  very  much ;  but  I  am  due  at  the  factory. 
Be  good  enough  to  excuse  me.  Carson  will  serve  your 
luncheon  at  whatever  hour  you  wish."  And,  with  a  slight 
bow,  he  left  the  room  whence  Greorgiana,  with  lowered 
veil,  soon  followed  him. 

All  that  day  Charles  was  in  excellent  spirits.  One 
of  the  two  dreaded  encounters  had  passed  off  so  easily,  so 
absurdly,  that  the  other  at  once  began  to  loom  less 
gigantically  on  his  horizon.  But  here,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, he  was  underrating  matters. 

As  it  happened,  the  second  scene  came  close  upon  the 
heels  of  the  first ;  and  was  by  no  means  so  simple  as  its 
predecessor. 

It  was  during  the  second  week  in  April  that  the  Mer- 
323 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


rills  came  home  from  California.  The  climate  of  Santa 
Barbara,  where  the  two  had  gone  to  retrench,  after  some 
weeks  of  the  Hotel  Green  at  Pasadena,  had  agreed  with 
John  Merrill  better  than  any  yet  discovered  in  all  their 
weary  travels.  And,  had  it  not  been  for  one  thing,  they 
would  have  remained  there  throughout  April  and  into 
May.  But  Mrs.  Merrill  had  become  exceedingly  uneasy 
about  Virginia,  from  whom  she  had  not  heard  in  more 
than  a  month.  And,  with  her  Mother's  instinct  fully 
roused,  she  suspected  serious  trouble,  bore  the  discomfort 
of  it  as  long  as  she  could,  and  then  carried  her  invalid 
Eastward  once  more. 

Arrived  in  Chicago,  her  first  act  was  to  write  to 
Charles.  It  was  a  short  note,  but  it  required  an  imme- 
diate reply.  Receiving  it,  Charles  took  the  brave  course, 
waived  all  questions,  and  asked  his  Mother-in-law  to 
lunch  with  him  on  the  next  day  but  one:  Wednesday, 
the  nineteenth  of  April.  The  invitation  was  immediately 
accepted;  and  Charles  had  one,  endless  night,  in  which 
to  decide  on  his  plan  of  disclosure. 

In  his  heart  he  was  aware  that  he  had  before  him 
a  pitiable  task ;  for,  unlike  Georgiana  Dupre,  he  believed 
Mrs.  Merrill  to  be  entirely  ignorant  of  her  daughter's 
recent  history.  Charles  could  realize,  pretty  adequately, 
just  what  it  was  going  to  mean  to  tell  a  woman 
whom  he  respected  as  thoroughly  as  he  respected 
Mrs.  Merrill,  the  story  that  would  justify  the  present 
situation  of  her  daughter.  And  Virginia  was  the  only 
child !  Van  Studdiford  fairly  groaned  as  he  thought  of 
the  half-hour  that  he  must  inflict  upon  her;  and  of  the 

324 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


nights  that  she  would  go  home  to:  nights  even  worse, 
perhaps,  than  those  he  had  lately  known ! 

The  inevitable,  however,  arrived.  On  Wednesday 
Charles  himself  met  the  11.4S  train  from  which  Mrs. 
Merrill  alighted;  and  twelve  o'clock  saw  them  at  the 
house.  There  was  still  an  hour  before  luncheon;  and 
Charles  wondered,  nervously,  as  they  entered  the  hall, 
just  how  it  was  to  be  got  through ;  for,  for  some  reason, 
it  had  not  been  his  plan  to  have  the  explanation  before 
the  meal.  It  was  strange  enough  that  he  should  have 
overlooked  the  inevitable  question  that  must  plunge  them 
at  once  into  the  midst  of  everything.  Mrs.  Merrill  had 
not  removed  her  gloves  when  she  said,  quietly : 

"  I  suppose  that  Virginia  is  ill,  Charles.  If  she  can 
bear  it,  may  I  go  up  to  her  at  once  ?  " 

Charles  experienced  a  quickening  of  the  heart.  Then 
he  replied,  gravely  and  quietly :  "  Virginia  is  not  upstairs, 
Mrs.  Merrill.    In  fact,  she  is  not  in  the  house  at  all." 

The  Mother  turned  a  blank  face  upon  him.  "  Where 
— is — she  ?  "  she  asked,  faintly,  her  face  suddenly  the 
color  of  ashes. 

"  Ah ! — She  is  quite  well !  "  said  Charles,  hastily,  read- 
ing her  fear, — "  She  is  now  on  a  farm  of  mine,  a  few 
miles  South  of  Grangeford. — ^Just  a  moment,  I  beg  of 
you."  He  rang  the  bell  in  the  hall,  and  Carson  appeared 
speedily. 

"  Two  glasses  of  sherry  and  some  biscuits  in  the 
library  at  once." 

The  butler  bowed  and  vanished.  Van  Studdiford, 
turning  to  his  companion,  was  shocked  anew  at  sight  of 

3^5 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


her  face.     The  youth,  the  prettiness,  were  quite  gone  from 
it.    She  looked,  suddenly,  very,  very  old. 

"  Mrs.  Merrill,  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to  come 
into  the  library  and  sit  down,  we  will  have  our  little  talk 
in  there,  together." 

They  were  just  seated,  Mrs.  Merrill  in  a  low  chair 
with  her  back  to  the  East  window,  Charles  opposite  her, 
when  Carson  returned  with  the  refreshment.  Mrs. 
Merrill  accepted  the  glass  of  wine  and  an  Albert  biscuit, 
but  seemed  inclined  to  partake  of  neither.  The  butler 
having  departed,  however,  Van  Studdiford  explained, 
quietly : 

"  What  I  have  to  tell  you,  my  dear  Madam,  is  not 
pleasant.    Please  drink  your  wine,  if  you  will  be  so  good." 

Mrs.  Merrill,  with  a  new  sinking  of  the  heart,  obeyed 
him,  mechanically,  and  then,  setting  down  her  glass, 
turned  toward  him  a  white,  set  face. 

Charles,  tightly  grasping  one  arm  of  his  chair,  and 
knitting  his  brows,  began,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
to  speak: 

"  Mrs.  Merrill,  I  must  preface  my  story  with  one  state- 
ment which,  however  strange  you  may  afterward  think 
it,  I  must  beg  you  to  believe  and  to  bear  in  mind  through- 
out our  talk.  I  love  Virginia  to-day  as  deeply  as,  though 
differently  than,  I  loved  her  when  I  asked  her  to  marry 
me."  He  paused,  expecting  a  question ;  but  his  guest  did 
not  speak. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Mrs.  Merrill,  a  certain  cousin 
of  mine,  Philip  Atkinson,  who  lunched  with   us  once 

at " 

326 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"  I  remember  him  perfectly,  Charles,  both  there  and 
here. — What  of  him?  " 

"  Two  months  ago,  while  driving  with  me,  he  was 
killed.    We  were  run  into  by  a  Rock  Island  train." 

Mrs.  Merrill  shuddered,  convulsively.  "  Driving  with 
you  ? — Weren't  you  terribly  hurt  ?  " 

"  Not  terribly.  I  broke  a  bone,  and  bruised  myself 
up  a  good  deal.  But  it  was  very  little. — There  is  some 
sort  of  high  justice,  I  suppose. — Well,  that  affair  was 
not  an  accident.  I  drove  across  the  track,  in  front  of  the 
train,  on  purpose." 

"Good  Heavens!" 

"  It  was  perfectly  fair.  It  gave  the  two  of  us  an 
even  chance." 

Mrs.  Merrill  rose  unsteadily  to  her  feet.  "  Charles ! 
What  do  you  mean? — For  God's  sake,  what  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Merrill — I  would  rather — face  a  battery  than 
tell  you  this  thing. — But  you  must  know. — You  see,  it 
was  necessary  that  one  of  us  should  be  out  of  the  way. 
We — both  loved  Virginia.  She  only  cared  for — one — of 
us."  He  bent  his  head,  slightly,  but  lifted  it  again  as  the 
Mother's  voice  rang  through  the  room. 

"  You — you — do  you  mean  to  say — are  you  telling  me, 
that  my  daughter  is — a — a  criminal  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  harsh  word,  Mrs.  Merrill."  His  voice  was 
rough  and  unsteady,  now. 

"Harsh?— It  is— true!— Oh,  God!— Oh,  my  God! 
It  is  I  that  am  to  blame !  I  am  to  blame !  "  She  sank 
down  again  into  the  chair,  and,  dropping  her  face  into  her 

327. 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


hands,  gave  herself  up  to  this  hideous  reaUzation  of  her 
old-time,  secret  fear. 

For  some  moments  there  was  silence  in  the  room. 
Charles  was  gazing  at  his  visitor  with  deeply  interested 
sympathy  in  his  red  face.  And,  after  a  little,  carried  by 
that  sympathy  quite  beyond  his  habitual,  masculine 
reticence,  he  moved  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  began  to 
speak,  in  a  low,  uncertain  voice. 

"  Mrs.  Merrill,  I  have  lived  with  this  thing  for  a  long 
time.  I  know  every  sensation  it  has  to  offer,  from  hatred 
and  jealousy  to  what  you're  going  through  just  now. 
But  I  have  come  to  a  conclusion ;  and  I  will  tell  it  to  you. 

"  You  are  doing  what  I  did :  taking  the  usual  verdict 
of  the  world  and  of  history ;  and,  in  your  bitterness,  you 
are  inclined  to  regard  the  past  climax  as  final.  It  is  not. 
It  isn't  nearly  so  important  as  we  like  to  make  it  out  to  be. 

"  If  Virginia  had  had  a  love  affair — had  even  been 
engaged — before  we  were  married,  no  one  would  have 
thought  much  of  it,  or  been  in  the  least  shocked.  But 
Virginia  was  married  too  young  to  have  had  any  experi- 
ence of  men ;  and  I  am  scarcely  the  type  that  a  romantic 
girl  would  choose  for  her  first  hero.  Atkinson  was, 
exactly ;  and  he  was  a  good  actor  through  the  whole  busi- 
ness— even  to  his  last  words — "  murmured  Charles  to 
himself,  musingly.  Then,  straightening,  he  went  on : 
"  They  saw  a  lot  of  each  other  here  while  I  was  working 
overtime  at  the  factory. — In  short,  you  see,  Virginia  had 
to  have  her  youth  out.  I  wonder  if,  after  all,  women 
aren't  constituted  pretty  much  like  men?  While  they're 
young,  they  are  full  of  animal  spirits,  and  they  want  to 

328 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


expend  them  on  an  object  satisfying  to  the  eye. — You  see, 
I  don't  express  these  things  well ;  but  you'll  understand. 

"  So,  Mrs.  Merrill,  as  I  told  you  at  first,  I  love  Vir- 
ginia still ;  and  I  want  to  bring  her  back  to  me,  this  time 
for  good.  I  intend  her  to  spend  the  summer  in  a  com- 
fortable sort  of  cottage  on  my  farm,  twelve  miles  from 
nowhere.  She  has  two  women  with  her,  one  of  'em  as 
trustworthy,  almost,  as  you  would  be.  But  I  want  to  make 
her  a  little  lonely.  In  the  autumn,  I  think,  she  may  come 
home. — Meantime,  will  you  trust  her  to  me  ?  " 

Little  by  little,  as  Charles  talked,  as  his  well-thought- 
out  words  fell  upon  her  chaotic  mind,  Mrs.  Merrill  lifted 
her  head  and  was  brought  out  of  herself.  When  he 
finished,  she  was  on  her  feet,  tears  filled  her  eyes,  and 
the  color  was  creeping  back  into  her  face. 

"  Charles  Van  Studdiford,  may  the  good  God  bless 
you!  I  trust  my  girl  to  you  now  as  I  did  not  on  her 
wedding-day. — I  never  knew,  I  should  not  have  dreamed, 
that  you  were  so  generous,  so  wise,  so  true  a  man :  one 
so  infinitely  better  than  she  deserves ! " 

And,  as  he  clasped  Mrs.  Merrill's  outstretched  hand, 
Charles  twisted,  uneasily,  blushed  a  vivid  scarlet,  but 
found  it  impossible  to  speak,  and  quite  as  impossible  to 
avoid  blowing  his  nose. 

For  a  fortnight  or  so  after  this  conversation,  Van 
Studdiford  was  more  contented  than  he  had  been  for 
nearly  a  year  past.  Nevertheless,  he  was  a  flesh-and- 
blood  fellow,  and  not  of  the  kind  that  can  exist  on  the  su- 
preme consciousness  of  well-doing,  to  the  exclusion  of 

22  329 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


everything  else.  Because  Van  Studdiford  honestly  re- 
gretted a  wife  who  had  never  cared  for  him,  nor  in  any 
way  deserved  his  affection,  he  had  by  no  means  become 
a  fully  developed  ascetic.  On  the  contrary,  as  the  days 
dragged  by,  the  emptiness  of  the  great  hous2  on  the  hill 
jarred  more  and  more  on  his  nerves,  and  his  magnanimity 
began  to  be  tempered  by  an  inarticulate  resentment 
against  the  wife  who,  in  her  isolation,  was  now  bitterly 
regretting  the  fact  of  her  birth. 

By  degrees,  then,  imperceptible  and  not  to  be  noted, 
Van  Studdiford  slipped  to  a  pretty  low  level,  finally  per- 
mitting himself  a  luxury  that  he  was  to  regret,  later,  to 
the  end  of  his  life.  On  the  fifteenth  day  of  May  the  little 
house  in  Burton  street  was  given  up.  And,  to  the  horror 
of  Grangeford  and  the  scandalized  interest  of  the  Van 
Studdiford  servants,  a  new,  temporary  mistress  was  in- 
stalled in  the  house  on  the  hill.  Henceforth  a  vigorous 
and  impetuous  blonde  was  to  be  addressed,  by  Carson  the 
imperturbable,  as  "  Madam."  A  new  lady's  maid  sat  at 
table  in  the  basement  dining-room :  a  maid  with  an  infi- 
nite fund  of  hushed  stories,  involving  names  sacred  in  the 
"  great  world "  of  Chicago  Society.  And  the  maid's 
mistress,  Muriel  Howard,  was  installed  in  her  long-time 
master's  own  house,  at  last.  But,  to  recount  the  one, 
saving  shred  of  Charles'  honor,  she  never  set  foot  in 
Virginia's  locked  rooms. 


330 


CHAPTER   XX 

During  this  period,  between  the  first  of  April  and  the 
first  of  June,  by  which  time  Charles  had  characteristically 
adjusted  himself  to  the  new  conditions  of  his  Grangeford 
life,  Virgfinia  was  enduring  weeks  more  direful  than  she 
had  dreamed  that  weeks  could  be:  a  time  in  which  the 
very  minutes  stretched  themselves  out  to  hours,  and  every 
hour  was  a  day.  Nor  could  she  know  the  meagre  conso- 
lation that  this  long  emptiness  contained  for  her  the  finest 
of  all  lessons.  To  her,  stunned  with  grief,  helpless,  and 
above  all,  still  selfish,  it  was  only  a  cruel  infliction,  a 
vast  waste,  a  prison-house  from  which  she  daily  prayed 
for,  implored,  or  despaired  of,  escape. 

During  those  weeks  there  was  spread  before  her, 
around  her,  a  natural  scene,  slowly  changing,  always  ex- 
quisite, to  which  she  was  not  wholly  insensible,  but  of 
which  she  understood  nothing.  Her  childhood  had  been 
too  unnatural  to  admit  of  her  comprehending  and  ade- 
quately loving  the  kindly  country  at  one  glance.  Those  few 
rare  weeks  in  which,  with  her  baby  at  her  side,  she  had, 
through  the  child  and  for  it,  come  to  love  the  autumnal 
phase  of  Nature,  had  been  long  since  banished  from  her 
memories.  Now,  in  an  inarticulate  sort  of  way,  she 
appreciated  the  development  of  the  living  things.  Her 
character  was  refined  enough  for  this.    But  she  could  not 

331 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


extract  from  it  those  lessons  of  patience  and  thoughtful- 
ness  and  understanding  of  Natural  Law  which  were  laid 
before  her  daily,  in  a  hundred  forms.  The  delicate,  bird- 
thrilling  dawns,  the  gentle  mornings,  sun-swept  noons, 
later  shadows  and  lingering  half-lights :  the  bloom-laden 
apple-trees,  the  perfect  silver-green  of  the  birches  and 
locusts,  the  golden-starred  pastures,  the  tinkling  brook, 
the  line  of  crimson  sunset  behind  the  dark,  upstretching 
woods:  these  things  surrounded  her,  were  seen  by  her, 
but  did  not  yield  her  their  essence. 

Moreover,  there  was  one  want  in  her  house  greater  to 
her  than  the  sum  of  all  the  other  comforts.  By  what  Vir- 
ginia believed  to  be  a  gross  forgetfulness,  in  reality 
because,  on  reflection,  the  probable  influence  of  the 
mournful  Chopin  seemed  to  Charles  to  promise  a  real 
danger,  there  was,  after  all,  no  piano  in  the  farm-cot- 
tage. To  Virginia  the  lack  was  first  an  amazement  (for 
she  had  never  in  her  life  lived  anywhere  without  a  piano)  ; 
and,  secondly,  a  dire  grievance.  To  most  of  the  world 
the  extent  to  which  she  missed  the  instrument  would 
have  seemed  absurd.  But  she  had  long  been  in  the  habit 
of  regarding  it  as  her  confidant,  and  of  pouring  out  upon 
it,  in  melody  or  chord  or  discord,  every  inmost  thought  or 
hope  of  her  heart. 

For  many  weeks,  then,  she  found  no  recompense  for 
the  loss  of  her  dearest  recreation.  Books — of  which  there 
was  an  excellent  assortment  in  the  living-room — sewing, 
gardening,  walks,  riding,  even  bee-keeping,  were  sug- 
gested by  Mrs.  Smith,  or  by  her  own  restless  mind.  At 
first  she  took  an  interest  in  none  of  these;  but,  by  de- 

332 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


grees,  a  combination  of  pursuits  began  to  replace  the 
neglected  music,  till  the  unbearableness  of  her  life  passed 
away,  and  a  certain  number  of  hours  each  day  were  got 
through  with  endurably,  if  not  quite  with  contentment. 

It  was  a  long  time,  however,  three  months  and  more, 
before  the  new  routine  became  familiar  enough  to  bring 
with  it  a  suggestion  of  cheerfulness.  When  that  time 
arrived,  however,  the  daily  occupations  were  eagerly  and 
earnestly  performed.  Perhaps  her  state  of  mind  for  the 
first,  dreadful  period,  that  time  of  self-centred  wretched- 
ness, was  not  to  be  attributed  wholly  to  selfishness,  after 
all.  No  one,  least  of  all  herself,  could  estimate  exactly  the 
extent  or  the  nature  of  the  shock  caused  by  Philip's  death. 
Certainly  for  a  long  time  she  appeared  to  have  been 
stunned  into  insensibility.  Everyone  that  came  in  contact 
with  her  watched  for  and  failed  to  find  any  sign  of  an 
absorbing  grief.  They  could  not  know  how  impossible  it 
still  was  for  her  to  believe  him  dead :  that  time  and  again 
she  saw  his  lithe  figure  at  the  gate  of  the  little  garden, 
and,  heart  leaping  high,  started  down  the  path  to  meet 
him,  only  to  be  brought  up,  after  a  few  steps,  by  swift 
disillusion.  But  by  night,  in  her  dreams,  his  coming  was 
sure  and  sweet.  They  talked,  and  loved,  and  wept 
together,  as  of  old ;  and,  for  a  time,  Virginia  woke  daily 
to  a  half -belief  that  one  of  the  well-known  old-time  nights 
had  been  repeated.  ^ 

The  first  overwhelming  shock  of  realization  came  dur- 
ing May,  in  the  letter  that  Mrs.  Merrill  finally  wrote  her 
child.  After  that  bitter  interview  with  her  son-in-law,  it 
had  taken  the  mother  four  long  weeks  to  face  the  new 

333 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


knowledge  of  her  daughter,  and  that  daughter's  situation. 
In  the  letter  that  she  finally  wrote,  were  signs  of  every 
variety  of  misery  that  she  had  endured  It  contained 
hardness,  chilliness,  stern  reproaches,  and  again  an  ach- 
ing, yearning  tenderness ;  all  of  which  pierced  Virginia's 
armor  like  fangs  of  poison-creatures.  It  was  a  week 
before  she  could  steel  herself  to  reply ;  and,  by  that  time, 
she  had  begun  that  refuge  of  the  unhappy,  the  guilty,  the 
vain  and  the  idle: — a  private  journal.  She  was  now, 
therefore,  in  a  fair  way  to  renewed  self-deception. 

However,  either  by  good-fortune,  or  by  an  unex- 
pected forbearance,  her  reply  to  Mrs.  Merrill's  letter 
contained  no  indulgence  of  denial,  excuse  or  reproach. 
And  by  this,  perhaps  unconsciously,  she  won  back  a  part 
of  the  Mother-treasure  that  she  had  lost,  and  also  secured, 
for  the  ensuing  months,  a  source  of  unfailing  comfort. 
For,  at  the  first,  hasty  reading  of  her  daughter's  missive, 
Mrs.  Merrill's  anger,  and,  to  a  large  extent,  her  distrust, 
were  dispelled ;  and  she  was  able  to  write  Virginia  again 
in  something  of  the  old,  loving  way.  Henceforth  her 
letters  contained  a  tender  pity ;  and  rarely  bore  any  sug- 
gestions of  reproach  about  the  past.  Thus,  finally,  it 
was  the  correspondence  with  her  Mother  that  kept  Vir- 
ginia's head  above  water  when  the  whirling,  rushing  tide 
of  understanding  had  really  caught  her. 

In  the  meantime,  an  occasional  diversion  was  offered 
in  another  way.  The  family  at  the  farmhouse,  Thomp- 
son, his  wife,  and  his  daughter-in-law,  took  a  more  or 
less  romantic  interest  in  the  master's  pretty,  unhappy 
wife.     They    were    inclined    to    show    her    whai    timid 

334 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


attentions  they  could,  and  she  was  still  more  inclined  to 
accept  them.  More  than  once,  for  instance,  Thompson 
himself  drove  her,  in  the  high  "  spring- wagon,"  (which 
appeared  to  take  its  name  from  there  not  being  the 
vestige  of  a  spring  about  it),  to  Hilton,  the  nearest  town 
to  the  South:  a  county-seat.  And,  the  first  couple  of 
times,  Virginia  enjoyed  the  jolting  drive,  was  amused 
at  sight  of  the  shopping,  and  pleased  to  help  pile  the 
various  purchases  into  the  wagon:  sugar,  and  molasses, 
and  tea,  and  calico  dress-goods,  acquired  by  Thompson 
with  the  aid  of  much  gossip  concerning  the  weather  and 
crop  probabilities.  On  the  third  trip,  however,  Virginia 
was  herself  led  to  enter  the  dry-goods  store,  with  the  idea 
of  buying  some  of  the  atrocities  displayed  in  the  shop- 
window  simply  because  any  sort  of  buying  seemed  a 
delightful  novelty.  Not  till  her  package  was  done  up, 
and  a  clerk  was  gently  suggesting  the  price,  did  she  real- 
ize that  she  had  not  a  cent  in  her  pocket :  that,  worse  still, 
there  was  not  more  than  two  or  three  dollars  in  her  purse 
at  the  cottage.  She  was,  truly,  a  penniless  Princess.  And 
never  had  she  more  bitterly  resented  her  poverty  than 
at  the  moment  when  she  understood  that  she  must  ask 
Thompson  to  pay  her  petty  bill ;  and  that  she  could  not 
dream  of  having  what  Mrs.  Thompson  had  grandly  sent 
her  husband  to  buy. 

Thereafter,  to  Thompson's  regretful  surprise,  Virginia 
went  no  more  to  Hilton.  The  journey  was  too  embitter- 
ing. But  the  experience  led  her  to  inquire  of  Mrs. 
Smith  about  their  mode  of  living ;  and,  to  her  consterna- 
tion, she  discovered  that  there  was  no  money  at  all  sent 

335 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


to  the  cottage.  The  wages  of  Mrs.  Smith  and  Mary  were 
deposited  in  the  Grangeford  Bank;  and,  when  any  gro- 
ceries, or  necessary  articles  of  food,  clothing  or  furniture 
were  needed,  the  list  was  simply  mailed  to  Van  Studdi- 
ford,  and  the  things  arrived,  unfailingly,  next  day,  by 
special  delivery. 

Van  Studdiford's  ruse  would  have  appeared  simple  to 
anyone  but  his  wife.  He  wanted  to  make  her  ask  him 
for  money.  But,  as  no  such  idea  as  this  ever  crossed  her 
mind,  he  waited  in  vain  for  the  request.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  was  the  discovery  of  this  mode  of  living,  the 
knowledge  that  no  money  could  be  obtained  in  the  cot- 
tage, that  gave  Virginia  her  first  wild  dream  of  flight. 

Summer  was  now  at  its  height.  June,  and  all  the 
red  and  pink  and  white  roses  in  the  front  yard,  were  dying 
together.  The  weather  was  hot  and  moist,  the  whole 
sunny  atmosphere  filled,  from  morning  till  night,  with 
the  heavy  fragrance  of  the  luxuriant,  growing  world. 
Now  there  was  to  be  found  no  stalk  without  its  flower, 
no  honey-cup  without  its  bee :  the  marriage-messenger  of 
flowers.  The  birds  had  finished  nesting,  and  little  ones 
were  beginning  to  fly  away.  Morning  and  evening,  all 
the  wide  atmosphere  vibrated  with  loud-throated  songs 
of  praise,  accompanied  by  the  instrumental  scrapings  of 
katydids  and  tree-toads,  and  the  distant  boom  of  the  big 
bull-frogs  in  the  marsh.  Virginia,  wandering  abroad 
through  the  mornings,  wondered  at  what  she  saw,  but 
suffered  many  a  bitter  heart-ache  from  her  great  loneli- 
ness in  the  midst  of  the  universal,  exuberant  joy  of  this, 
the  lovers'  season. 

336 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Alas !  How  she  missed  Philip  now !  how  bitterly, 
constantly,  absolutely!  Her  simple  existence  reminded 
her  daily  of  their  dreams  and  plans  of  such  a  life  together : 
a  life;  not  this  mere,  dreary  watching  of  the  passage  of 
days.  The  two  had  talked  of  it,  of  old.  They  had  writ- 
ten of  it  more.  They — or,  rather,  Virginia — had  dreamed 
of  it  through  many  an  hour  before  that  horrible  February 
dawn.  This  life  that  she  was  leading  now :  ah !  it  would 
have  been  exquisite,  had  Philip  but  been  with  her  to  live 
her  days ;  to  drink  the  morning  coffee,  rich  with  hot  milk, 
eat  the  rolls  spread  thick  with  fragrant  butter  churned 
the  day  before;  to  wander,  before  the  sun  was  high, 
through  field  and  orchard,  pasture  and  wood,  following 
the  gay  little  brook  to  its  source  in  a  shadowy  grove, 
where  just  a  handful  of  crystal  water  bubbled  up  out  of 
the  ferns ;  later,  when  the  day  had  become  too  oppressive, 
to  retreat  with  her  into  the  well-shaded  cottage,  there  to 
dream  away  long,  beautiful  hours  in  each  other's  arms, 
sometimes  over  a  book,  more  often  just  with  their  own, 
divine  love ;  and,  finally,  upon  the  descent  of  the  perfumed 
twilight,  to  sit  in  the  flower-tangled  garden,  and  gaze  up- 
ward, while  Mother  Nature  hung  before  them,  one  by  one, 
the  choicest  of  her  canvases,  ending,  finally,  with  that  of 
Evening:  just  a  misty,  blue-gray  background,  strung  with 
golden  crescent  and  diamond-pointed  stars,  toward  which 
the  dew-damped  earth  sent  up  a  store  of  overpowering 
incense,  gathered  through  the  day.  Hand  in  hand  they 
should  sit  and  watch,  till — the  dear  dream  faded,  and 
Virginia  beheld  the  truth,  and  saw  herself  forever  alone. 
Truly,  such  imaginings  as  these  had  their  penalty.    When 

337 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


they  were  at  an  end  she  had  tasted  to  the  full  her  cup 
of  loneliness;  and  the  hour  of  black  dejection  would 
once  more  merge  into  the  secret,  vengeful  plan  of  flight. 

In  the  beginning  of  this  living  in  imaginary  worlds 
the  dream  most  frequently  indulged  was  that  of  going 
to  her  Mother.  By  a  good  deal  of  travelling  on  foot,  and 
the  greatest  possible  care,  her  little  bit  of  money  (which 
Charles  did  not  know  she  possessed)  might  suffice  to  get 
her  to  Chicago,  where  she  could  certainly  find  her  way 
from  the  station  to  the  Metropole  Hotel.  Yet,  often 
as  she  planned  this  journey,  it  was,  in  the  end,  always 
stopped  by  the  same  obstacle:  a  sensation  of  stubborn 
pride.  If  her  Mother  wanted  her,  surely  she  might  ask 
for  her,  or  would  come  to  see  her.  The  trip  to  Grange- 
ford  and  thence  to  the  cottage,  could  scarcely  be  an  im- 
possible feat.  Why,  why,  most  passionately  why,  did  not 
her  Mother  come  ? 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  that  same  question  had  given  Van 
Studdiford  a  good  deal  of  inconvenience ;  and  had  many 
times  come  between  Mrs.  Merrill  and  her  conscience.  But 
Caroline  Merrill  was  nearly  as  sensible  as  she  was  strong- 
willed;  and,  often  as  she  yearned  to  take  her  wayward 
girl  into  her  arms  and  give  her  comfort,  she  knew  that 
Virginia  did  indeed  deserve  this  summer's  punishment. 
During  her  talk  with  Van  Studdiford  she  had  listened, 
amazed,  to  his  estimation  of  the  importance  of  his 
wife's  love-aflfair.  In  one  way,  of  course,  she  was 
eager  to  agree  with  him.  In  another  way  she  beheld, 
with  clear  and  pitying  conviction,  that  the  bitter  lesson 
of  greatest  loneliness  must  be  learned  by  heart  before 

338 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Virginia  Van  Studdiford  could  become  a  big-souled,  wom- 
anly woman.  Thus  it  was  that  the  Mother  left  her  child 
alone  in  the  retreat  provided  by  her  husband;  and  only 
in  her  letters  did  she  allow  a  little  of  her  tenderness  to 
overflow  in  written  words. 

From  the  thought  of  her  Mother,  therefore,  Virginia 
always  turned,  in  anger,  to  other  possibilities :  those  of  a 
life  alone,  in  which  she  should  gain  her  own  living,  by — 
teaching  music,  to  stupid  pupils,  at  a  dollar,  or,  at  most, 
two  dollars  a  lesson?  Ugh!  That  was  a  dream  that 
never  progressed  very  far.  She  was,  doubtless,  better  off 
in  the  present  than  that.  Here,  at  least,  her  meals  were 
well  cooked  and  served. — Ah!  What  could  she  have 
asked  more  if  Philip  could  be  with  her  here — ^And  so  the 
weary  round  again. 

Through  June  and  July  her  dream-days  were  many 
and  ardent ;  and  from  every  one  of  them  the  thought  of 
Charles  was  painfully  shut  away.  But  in  the  burning 
days  of  August  Virginia  drooped,  visibly,  both  in  mind 
and  in  body.  There  were  many  headaches  now;  and 
often  she  kept  her  room,  sometimes  her  bed,  through  two 
nights  and  a  day.  Mrs.  Smith  began  to  watch  over  her 
with  some  anxiety.  She  complained,  however,  far  less 
than  of  old,  and  seemed  genuinely  grateful  for  services 
that  had,  in  the  past,  been  demanded  as  a  matter  of 
course.  She  who  had  not  known  the  meaning  of  grati- 
tude toward  Lucy,  who  had  risked  reputation  and  life 
for  her,  now  rarely  failed  to  thank  Mrs.  Smith  for  so 
much  as  a  glass  of  water  poured  out  and  handed  to 
her,  or  her  salts  brought  without  the  asking.     She  was 

339 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


gentler,  too,  than  formerly:  more  thoughtful,  and  more 
silent.  The  healthy  tone  of  the  life  that  had  recently 
surrounded  her  was  struggling  hard  to  subdue  the  ef- 
fects of  wrong-thinking  and  wrong-living;  and  what 
could  Virginia  be  but  a  passive  battle-ground?  Mrs. 
Smith,  however,  did  not  like  the  shadows  that  now  lay 
permanently  beneath  her  eyes;  nor  did  she  fail  to  per- 
ceive that  the  former  slenderness  had  become  thinness. 
And  the  good  woman  was  not  a  little  disturbed  as  she 
watched  her  charge  lie,  hour  after  hour,  motionless,  with 
closed  eyes,  upon  her  bed  in  a  darkened  room,  never,  as 
the  good  woman  was  well  aware,  asleep. 

Mrs.  Smith,  however,  would  have  been  almost  startled 
had  she  known  the  direction  that  Virginia's  thoughts 
were  taking  nowadays.  The  change  had  begun  so  im- 
perceptibly that  Virginia  herself  had  not  felt  it.  Yet  she 
dreamed,  now,  not  of  Philip,  not  of  her  Mother,  neither 
of  the  injustice  of  her  punishment ;  but,  first  of  all,  of  her 
baby;  and  then,  a  little  later,  of  the  baby's  Father,  the 
husband  who  would  not  free  himself  from  her,  and  against 
whom  she  had  greatly  sinned.  The  wish  to  see  Charles 
again  was  the  last  thing  to  arrive ;  but,  in  time,  the  pros- 
pect of  this  became  an  event  rather  to  be  looked  forward 
to  than  dreaded.  By  the  end  of  August  she  believed 
that  if  she  could  only  see  her  husband  she  should  meet 
him  as  they  had  never  met  before.  Perhaps  she  could 
even  make  him  understand — how  she  had  changed. 

As  if  in  obedience  to  her  unexpressed  wish,  in  reality 
because  Charles  himself  despaired  of  her  sending  for  him, 
and  because  he  could  no  longer  restrain  his  desire  to  see 

340 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


her  and  know  how  she  progressed,  her  husband  did  come 
to  the  cottage,  arriving  at  noon,  on  Saturday  September 
the  ninth. 

And  still — oh,  highest  perversity  of  the  human  race! 
— with  all  their  careful  preparation,  with  all  the  wish  on 
both  sides  to  meet  as  they  should  have  met,  their  inter- 
view went  all  awry.  With  Charles  it  was,  perhaps,  the 
guilty  image  of  Muriel  Howard  that  stood  between 
him  and  his  wife — the  wife  whose  appearance  startled 
him,  so  frail  had  she  become.  Virginia,  however,  had 
no  reason  for  her  behavior.  The  image  of  Philip  now 
no  longer  entirely  filled  her  mental  vision;  and  after- 
wards, severely  questioning,  she  could  find  no  excuse 
whatsoever  for  her  coldness.  When,  however,  in  the 
sudden  agitation  following  Mrs.  Smith's  flurried  an- 
nouncement, Virginia  had  hurriedly  rearranged  her  hair, 
waited  long  enough  to  recover  her  poise,  and  then  started 
down  the  narrow  stairs,  she  had  a  sudden,  overwhelming 
rush  of  feeling;  and  all  the  old  distaste,  disgust  and  re- 
pulsion settled  down  on  her  again.  In  the  moment,  too, 
of  coming  face  to  face  with  him,  of  looking  up  the  stocky 
figure  to  the  red  face,  with  its  pale  eyes,  red  moustache, 
and  shiny  expanse  of  head  overtopping  the  whole,  the 
resentment  was  deepened.  Oh !  Alas,  alas !  Charles  had 
grown  stouter !    Charles  was  detestable  still ! 

Virginia's  manner  was  very  quiet,  very  cool,  very  civil. 
But  the  man  felt  himself  held  off  from  her  as  if  she  stood 
in  an  Arctic  atmosphere  and  would  not  let  him  freeze 
himself.  In  the  first  instant  of  their  meeting  he  felt  her 
mood ;  and,  at  this  quick  frustration  of  his  dearest  hope, 

341 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


since  he  beheld  her  exactly  as  of  old,  distant,  haughty, 
unapproachable,  the  heart  within  him  sank,  and  his  own 
manner  stiffened  and  grew  cold. 

To  a  listener,  their  greeting  would  have  seemed  that 
of  rather  slight  acquaintances,  met,  by  chance,  in  some 
lonely  spot. 

"  I — I  am  very  much  surprised. — We  had  not  in  the 
least  expected  to  see  you.  You  will  find  our  luncheon 
extremely  light,  I  am  afraid;  and  there  is  not  a  drop 
of  wine  or  whiskey  in  the  house.  What  shall  you 
drink?" 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right.  Too  warm  for  anything  but 
beer.  Thompson  may  have  that.  Otherwise — well,  what 
does  it  matter  ? — How  are  you  ?  " 

Virginia  made  no  offer  to  send  to  Thompson's  for  the 
beer.  As  she  seated  herself,  at  some  little  distance  from 
him,  she  merely  answered  his  last  question :  "  I  am  per- 
fectly well,  thank  you.  Should  I  not  be,  after  so  care- 
ful a  summer  ?  " 

"  H'm ! — But  the  winter  ? — What  about  the  winter, 
Virginia?    Aren't  you  coming  back  to  Grangeford?  " 

At  the  question,  Virginia's  face  did  not  change. 
Neither,  however,  did  she  make  an  immediate  reply. 
She  had  brought  down  a  fan  with  her,  which  she 
now  used  to  conceal  her  face  a  little.  The  slight  crackle 
of  it,  as  it  passed  back  and  forth,  was  the  only  sound  in 
the  room.  Finally,  with  a  quiver  at  her  heart,  and  a 
corresponding  coldness  in  her  voice,  she  asked :  "  I  sup- 
pose you  still  refuse  to  do  what  I  so  earnestly  asked  of 
you,  at  the — at  the  time  of — last  February  ?  " 
'  34a 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


"What's  that  ?— Oh— Divorce !  "  he  cried,  harshly. 
"  Yes,  by  God !  I  do  refuse  it ! — Confound  it  all,  haven't 
you  had  enough  of  this  thing  yet  ?  " 

He  rose,  and  stared  angrily  about  him,  as  if  to  dis- 
cover some  hidden  fascination  in  the  room.  In  a  moment 
Virginia  answered,  still  quite  calmly  and  coldly :  "  I  had 
had  enough  of  it  one  week  after  I  arrived." 

"  Then  why  the  Devil  don't  you  come  back  to  Grange- 
ford?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and,  though  perfectly 
aware  of  her  perverseness,  answered,  with  a  faint  smile : 
"  Because,  out  of  two  evils,  one  chooses  the  lesser." 

This  time,  Charles  found  no  reply.  His  red  face  lost 
a  little  of  its  brilliant  color,  and  he  went  back  and  sat 
down  again  in  his  chair  near  the  window.  "  So— it  is  a 
great  evil  to  live  with  me ! — So  you  really  don't  care  at 
all,"  he  said,  in  a  husky  voice,  without  any  rising  inflec- 
tion at  the  end  of  the  last  sentence. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  say  that."  So  much  was  forced  out  of 
Virginia,  by  a  combination  of  remorse  and  tyrannical 
truth. 

"  But  you  meant  it. — Well,  I'll  not  stay  for  lunch, 
I  think.— Good-by." 

"  No,  no,  Charles ! — Don't  go ! — I — you — you'll  be 
faint  before  you  get  back  to  Grangeford." 

"  Nonsense ! — And  why  should  you  care  if  I  am  ? — 
Good-by."    He  held  out  his  hand,  resolutely. 

Suddenly  Virginia  began  to  want  him  to  stay.  At 
the  same  time,  she  found  herself  tongue-tied.  She  ac- 
cepted his  hand  for  an  instant,  and  then  managed  to  utter, 

343 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


more  stiffly  than  she  intended :  "  I  am  so  sorry,  Charles. 
— Do  stay  for  luncheon !  " 

"  No  thanks."    Ke  withdrew  his  hand  from  hers. 

"Charles!" 

"Yes?" 

"  If  I  should  want  to  return  to  Grangeford,  may  I  ?  " 

He  halted,  turned,  and  looked  at  her  keenly.  "  Al- 
ways ! — You  are  always  my  wife.  My  home  is  yours. — 
Let  me  know  when  you  are  ready  to  come — home !  " 

And,  as  he  strode  out  of  the  house,  the  expression  on 
his  face  was  considerably  softened,  and  there  was  a 
sparkle  in  his  eyes.  He  went  up  to  Thompson's,  ate  a 
hasty  luncheon  there,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  farmer's 
wife  and  daughter-in-law,  and  then  set  out  on  his  return 
to  Grangeford.  That  drive,  for  all  the  momentary  re- 
lenting of  Virginia's  manner,  was  not  a  pleasant  one. 
He  had  hoped  for  so  much  more :  even  to  return  with  the 
date  of  Virginia's  coming  settled.  Also — he  had  intended, 
and  hoped,  to  give  Muriel  her  conge  that  evening.  For, 
oh !  how  tired  he  was  of  that  woman,  who,  living  in  the 
same  house  with  him,  had  been  able  to  hide  none  of  those 
unpleasantnesses  of  character  and  manner  that  are  in- 
herent in  us  all,  but  are  much  magnified  in  women  of  her 
stamp.  Yet  he  was  to  blame  for  her  presence;  and  he 
knew  that  he  must  now  endure  it  for  a  little  longer ;  be- 
cause she  was  all  he  had. 

Fifteen  minutes  after  Van  Studdiford  had  left  the  cot- 
tage Mrs.  Smith,  after  coughing  loudly  at  the  door,  came 
into  the  living-room  to  announce  luncheon.  To  her  amaze- 
ment the  only  occupant  of  the  room  was  Virginia.     She 

344 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


could  discover  no  one  else. — Who,  then,  was  to  eat  the 
chickens?  And  who  was  to  drink  the  beer,  which,  by 
her  own  forethought,  had  just  been  brought  down  from 
the  farmhouse? — These  questions,  however,  she  did  not 
ask;  for  she  could  have  got  no  answer  from  her  mis- 
tress, who  lay,  face  downward,  on  the  sofa  sobbing  as  if 
her  heart  would  break. 


«  345 


CHAPTER  XXI 

That  year  Charles  Van  Studdiford  spent  the  most 
unpleasant  autumn  of  his  life.  First  of  all  he  was  in  a 
state  of  great  disgust  with  himself.  Secondly,  he  was 
thoroughly  cured  of  his  passion  for  Muriel  Howard ;  and 
yet  he  felt  that  he  had  no  particular  reason  for  driv- 
ing her  out  of  his  lonely  house.  Thirdly,  Grangeford, 
and  all  the  people  therein  were  disgusted  with  him. 
Fourthly,  and  above  all  the  rest,  he  still  regretted  Vir- 
ginia, still  wanted  to  see  her  in  her  rightful  place,  and 
had  begun,  in  his  disillusionment,  to  see  himself  in  a 
thoroughly  unfavorable  light  with  regard  to  his  past 
treatment  of  her. 

When  a  man  of  wealth  and  standing,  through  some 
whim,  or  disappointment,  or  mistake,  takes  a  woman  not 
his  wife  into  his  own  house,  and  openly,  before  his  world, 
displays  her  there,  he  does  a  remarkably  foolish  thing. 
Neither  the  man  nor  the  woman  can  possibly  be  happy. 
Each  is  completely  out  of  his  natural  element ;  and,  worse 
still,  the  man  is  far  more  miserable  than  the  woman,  be- 
cause he  has  lost  what  she  has  never  had :  standing  among 
his  kind.  Even  before  midsummer  Charles  had  learned 
the  folly  of  his  angry  impulse,  and  bitterly  had  he  re- 
gretted it  then.  But  more,  most  bitterly,  was  he  regret- 
ting it  now.    Good  women,  whom  he  had  known  all  his 

346 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


life,  and  who  had  known  his  Mother  before  him,  now 
passed  him  in  the  town  without  a  glance  in  his  direction. 
The  Misses  Heminway  even  crossed  the  street  that  they 
might  not  have  the  embarrassment  of  meeting  him  face  to 
face.  And  the  best  of  the  men,  all  of  them  warm  friends 
of  his,  and,  in  the  old  days,  proud  of  knowing  him,  held 
aloof,  and  made  their  "  good-days  "  chilly  and  curt ;  for 
his  way  of  life  they  felt  to  be  an  insult  to  their  wives  and 
their  daughters. 

Because  of  his  life,  the  tide  of  gossip  against  Vir- 
ginia had  now  turned;  and  nothing  much  harsher 
than  pity  was  felt  for  her.  Her  husband's  behavior 
seemed  to  excuse  any  folly  she  might  have  been  guilty 
of  with  the  dead  cousin;  and  crime  was  rarely  laid 
at  her  door.  Only  Marion  Hunt,  though  aghast  at 
Charles'  actions,  still  retained,  in  the  midst  of  her  mourn- 
ing, the  sting  of  jealousy  of  her  erstwhile  friend;  and, 
though  her  tongue  was  silent,  there  lay  in  her  heart 
much  that  was  to  be  cast  in  the  way  of  Virginia's  restora- 
tion to  society. 

No  doubt  the  town  attributed  a  certain  sort  of  happi- 
ness, of  a  wild,  org^acal  character,  to  Charles,  in  his  pres- 
ent life.  And  this,  not  unnaturally,  caused  almost  as 
much  indignation  as  the  fact  of  his  fault.  They  never 
dreamed  how  the  idea  wronged  him.  Three  years  of 
married  life  with  fastidious  Virginia,  contrasted  with  four 
months  of  unmarried  existence  with  Muriel  Howard,  had 
been  a  revelation  to  Van  Studdiford.  He  could  now  have 
g^ven  violent  testimony  of  the  uselessness,  the  vulgarity, 
the  revolting  callousness,  lying  beneath  the  very  thin  layer 

347 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


of  fascination  in  the  women  of  the  half -world.  By  the 
first  of  September  he  was  spending  as  many  solitary, 
morose  evenings  in  his  library  as  had  been  his  wont  in 
Atkinson's  time.  And  while  Muriel  Howard  was  raging 
against  her  position  to  her  maid,  and  Carson  was  setting 
his  fellow-servants  an  example  of  cool  disregard  of  "  the 
Madam's "  orders,  Charles  found  himself  beginning  a 
species  of  self-communion  which  was  moulding  his  mind 
anew.  Had  Virginia  been  able  to  gaze  into  her  husband's 
brain  she  would  have  been  amazed  at  the  trend  of  his 
thoughts.  He  began,  like  his  wife,  by  dreaming  of  the 
baby.  That  little  daughter,  whom,  in  life,  he  had  scarcely 
considered  at  all,  he  yearned  for,  mourned,  regretted,  as 
even  Virginia  could  scarcely  regret  her — now.  And  out 
of  the  little,  vanished  baby  life,  rose  a  vision  for  Charles : 
a  vision,  which,  cherished  by  night  and  by  day,  grew 
radiant  before  him,  and  put  hope  into  his  heart :  the  hope 
of  a  great  future  joy.  The  vague  dream,  which  there  was 
so  little  possibility  of  transforming  into  reality,  became, 
as  the  days  passed,  dearer  to  him  than  had  been^  in  his 
courtship  period,  the  prospect  of  marriage  with  pretty 
Virginia  Merrill.  His  was  now  to  be  something  finer 
than  an  idea  of  marriage :  it  had  become  an  ideal.  The 
wife  was  still  to  be  Virginia.  (Dear  God!  Would  she 
come  back  to  him?)  And  he  and  she  were  to  learn  to 
know  each  other  tenderly  and  truthfully.  No  man,  no 
woman,  not  even  the  great  American  Ghost  of  Business, 
was  to  come  between  them  now.  They  were  to  be  pas- 
sionate devotees  of  their  Lares  and  Penates.  And  because 
of  these  things,  as  the  full  years  passed,  many  children, 

348 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


boys  and  girls,  should  come  to  them,  to  be  reared  in  love, 
and  taught  to  honor  their  parents.  Truth  and  fidelity 
were  to  be  the  watchwords  of  the  new  life ;  and  sacrifice 
should  be  made  to  it  by  both : — the  sacrifice  of  all  those 
little  selfish  pettinesses  never,  hitherto,  renounced  by  any- 
one. It  was  a  strong  man's  chastened  dream  of  Happi- 
ness. Would  it,  could  it,  come  to  pass? — The  first  step 
would  be  the  most  difficult ;  for  he  knew  now  that,  if  they 
were  to  begin  in  the  true  way,  Virginia  must  come  home 
to  him  of  her  own  free  will. 

Just  now,  had  Virginia  been  asked  the  question  as  to 
whether  she  wished  to  return  to  him,  she  would  probably 
have  answered,  hotly,  "  No !  "  But,  just  because  of  the 
heat,  one,  clear-seeing,  might  have  divined  a  discrepancy 
between  the  words  and  the  thought  that  lay  behind  the 
monosyllable. 

Indeed,  the  woman,  watching,  in  her  loneliness,  the 
lingering  death  of  Summer  and  the  short,  glowing  life 
of  Autumn,  had  come  perilously  near  the  borderland  of 
Despair.  These  weeks  of  late  September  and  October 
formed  her  dark  hour;  and  again  and  again  she  refused 
to  allow  the  dawn  to  break.  In  her  heart  of  hearts  she, 
like  Charles,  knew,  probably,  that  even  in  the  midst  of  so 
much  wrong  there  remained  still  the  living  germ  of 
Right  for  both  of  them.  Was  it,  then,  only  Pride,  that 
stupidest,  most  doubtful  of  the  virtues,  that  was  to  stand 
in  her  way  to  the  very  end  ?  Alas !  As  yet  no  one  could 
tell.  Virginia  herself  did  not  know  the  extent  of  her 
peril.  She  had  never  even  suspected  the  existence  of 
Muriel  Howard ;  and  had  no  conception  of  the  hideous 

349 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


things  that  might  result  from  too  long  a  delay  on  her 
part.  She  knew  the  real  characteristics  of  men  not  at  all. 
The  real  side  of  any  man  had  never,  actually,  been  pre- 
sented to  her;  and  how  was  she  to  surmise  their 
many  possibilities?  Moreover,  even  had  she  known  her 
danger,  would  salvation  have  been  hastened?  Who  can 
say?  As  it  was,  day  after  day,  for  weeks,  the  question 
was  weighed  in  the  most  fragile  of  balances ;  and,  with 
that  strangest  characteristic  of  her  sex,  she,  honestly 
longing  to  go  back  to  Grangeford,  to  Charles,  neverthe- 
less, for  fifty-six  dreary  days,  contemplated,  unceasingly, 
the  prospect  of  spending  the  winter  in  the  cottage. 

By  this  time  Virginia's  little  household  was  in  a  fer- 
ment of  discontent,  which,  continually  encountered,  had 
to  be  recognized.  As  the  days  became  chilly  and  short, 
and  the  mornings  in  the  cottage  grew  cheerless  and  cold, 
Mrs.  Smith  and  her  niece,  who  had  never  dreamed  of 
spending  more  than  the  summer  (and  that  on  very  large 
wages)  in  this  lonely  spot,  became  unmanageable  and 
sulky,  and  pictured  discontent  from  morning  until  night. 
But,  the  more  fervent  their  expressions  of  displeasure 
with  the  cottage  and  its  surroundings,  the  more  stub- 
bornly did  Virginia  vow  to  stay,  and  the  more  persistently 
did  she  shut  away  from  her  her  dreams  of — home. 

Autumn  drew  along.  The  gorgeous  colorings  of  the 
foliage  faded  and  grew  old,  and  sombre,  and  dead.  The 
rustling  leaves  were  brown,  now,  and  fluttered  daily  from 
their  boughs  in  dark  showers,  drifting  before  the  wind 
into  all  the  crannies  of  pasture  and  wood.  At  dawn 
and   twilight    there   were   few    bird-calls    to   be   heard. 

350 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Bright-feathered  creatures  had  taken  flight  for  the  South ; 
and  the  sparrows  settled  down  to  their  long,  undisputed 
reign.  The  melancholy  month,  the  dreariest  of  the  year, 
was  at  hand.  And,  at  its  coming,  Virginia  gave  herself 
up  to  the  gray  mood. 

An  anniversary,  the  saddest  in  Virginia's  sad  calen- 
dar, was  approaching:  the  date  of  her  baby's  death: 
the  real  beginning  of  the  breaking  up  of  her  married 
life.  As  Virginia  dwelt,  in  thought,  upon  this  day,  she 
was  filled,  more  than  ever  before,  with  bitter  regret  that 
the  innocent  life  had  not  been  spared  to  her.  She  felt 
again,  more  deeply  than  of  old,  that,  could  her  child  have 
lived,  her  own  life  might  have  remained  guiltless  and 
pure.  Then,  in  a  sudden  flash,  there  came  another  wish, 
which  she  had  not  considered  before:  a  right  wish,  a 
saving  wish :  the  desire  for  other  children.  With  them, 
it  seemed  to  her,  lay  her  one  hope  of  joy  and  salvation. 
And  the  coming  of  this  thought  was  the  vanguard  of  the 
victorious  army. 

Shall  I,  shall  anyone,  reveal  the  field  of  that  last  strug- 
gle: that  final  battle  between  Virginia's  memories  and 
the  new  perceptions  of  right  and  duty?  It  is  sacred 
ground,  and  may  not  be  studied  with  uncomprehending 
eyes.  Too  many  cherished  dead  are  buried  on  that  field : 
— a  great  g^uilt,  a  mighty  love,  innumerable  heartaches, 
yearnings,  rebellions :  all  the  children  of  loneliness.  But, 
these  finally  gone,  Virginia's  soul  was  purified,  as  by  fire, 
and  prepared  for  the  strange  impulse  which,  so  quickly 
and  so  imexpectedly,  brought  about  the  end. 

On  the  morning  of  Wednesday,  November  the  eighth, 
351 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


Virginia  woke  with  a  heavy  sense  of  oppression  that  was 
neither  to  be  defined  nor  shaken  off  by  rising  and  break- 
fast. Till  noon  she  idled  about  the  tiny  house,  taking  up 
a  bit  of  work  and  putting  it  away  again,  opening  a  book, 
and  finding  herself  unable  to  keep  her  thoughts  on  any 
stupid  hero  or  vapid  heroine.  Yet  her  thoughts,  which 
she  strove  in  vain  to  command,  would  do  nothing 
but  return  to  an  old,  suddenly-strengthened  but  long 
threshed-out  subject:  an  overpowering  dread  of  the  ap- 
proaching winter:  such  a  dread  as  she  remembered  to 
have  felt  only  in  the  first  year  of  her  marriage,  when, 
upon  her  pitiable  ignorance,  had  dawned  the  unavoidable 
mystery  of  Motherhood. 

By  noon  she  was  struggling  to  overcome  this  dread ; 
but  by  the  time  that  her  dreary  luncheon  was  finished 
she  felt  that  only  physical  fatigue  could  master  the  mor- 
bidness of  her  mental  state.  Thus,  entirely  without  pre- 
monition of  the  outcome,  she  prepared  herself  for  the 
walk  that  was  to  lead  her  back  into  the  world. 

She  left  the  cottage,  at  a  little  before  two  o'clock,  clad 
in  a  short  skirt  and  a  rough  jacket,  with  a  small  toque 
pinned  close  to  her  head.  It  was  a  typical  November  day. 
Any  momentary  suggestion  of  blue  in  the  sky  was  speed- 
ily covered  with  layers  of  scurrying,  heavy-fringed 
clouds,  driven  by  a  wild  wind  that  was  rushing  down  from 
the  North  in  great,  fresh  gusts.  Once  on  the  high-road 
Virginia  turned,  instinctively.  Northward;  her  mood 
craving  a  struggle  with  the  elements.  And  the  more 
savagely  she  was  buffeted  by  the  wind  the  higher  did 
her  spirits  rise,  in  excitement  at  the  contest.     She  had 

352 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


gone  a  mile,  possibly  more,  before  she  became  vaguely 
conscious  of  a  new  purpose  in  her  progress:  a  purpose 
grown,  somehow,  out  of  the  direction  in  which  she  was 
walking.  But  she  was  at  least  three  miles  from  Thomp- 
son's, and  it  was  past  three  o'clock,  before  she  knew 
that  she  was  going  on  to  Grangeford :  that  she  was  going 
to  her  husband's  house ;  and  that  her  heart  was  suddenly 
filled  with  a  boundless  relief,  a  high,  surging  happiness. 

In  the  succeeding  mile,  however,  fatigue  began  to 
come  upon  her.  She  was,  by  spells,  pantingly  hot  and 
shiveringly  cold.  And  she  knew  well  that  she  had  gone 
less  than  a  third  of  the  distance.  Yet  easier,  a  hundred 
times,  to  go  the  whole,  weary  eight  miles,  breasting  the 
wild  wind,  with  hope  and  life  ahead  of  her,  than  to  turn 
back,  along  the  easy  road,  to  the  old,  deadening  isola- 
tion. So  far  had  Virginia  advanced  in  knowledge  of  the 
Laws  of  Life  that  the  hard  was  become  easy,  by  reason 
of  sure  reward.  ^ 

Two  more  slow  and  weary  miles,  that  took  her  the 
best  part  of  an  hour  to  accomplish,  and  she  was  obliged 
to  stop  entirely,  and  sit  down  by  the  roadside,  with  her 
back  against  a  sheltering  tree.  She  hated  herself  for  her 
lack  of  endurance,  begrudging  each  second  of  delay.  In 
the  end,  however,  her  halt  proved  to  be  time  gained.  For 
presently,  from  the  South,  came  a  ponderous  farm  wagon, 
driven  by  a  neighbor  of  Thompson's,  who  knew  the  lady 
by  sight  and  oflFered  her  a  lift,  which  she  took,  suddenly 
perceiving  Fate  to  be  with  her. 

It  was  ten  minutes  past  five  when  the  driver  of  her 
slow  but  merciful  equipage  set  her  down,  on  the  out- 

353 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


skirts  of  Grangeford,  with  a  gruff  and  friendly  word  of 
farewell.  It  was  with  a  sudden  sensation  of  anxiety, 
centred  in  a  whole  tumult  of  undefined  emotions,  that 
she  began  her  walk  through  the  town,  starting  at  the 
far  end  of  the  James  Road.  The  gathering  dusk  proved 
a  shelter  from  recognition:  and  she  gazed  with  a  beat- 
ing heart  at  the  lights  appearing,  one  by  one,  in  the 
windows  of  the  comfortable,  old-fashioned  houses  border- 
ing the  street  on  either  side.  They  bred  a  yearning  in 
Virginia's  heart :  a  longing  for  "  home,"  for  tenderness, 
for — care,  and  love,  and  a  new  place  among  people.  As 
she  went  along  wrapped  in  these  gentle  thoughts,  she 
was  passed  by  Marion  Hunt,  who,  seated  in  a  surrey,  was 
being  driven  rapidly  down  the  street,  in  the  direction  of 
her  home.  Marion  had  not  seen  her.  But  the  glimpse 
suddenly  shattered  all  the  brightness  of  Virginia's 
dreams,  and  plunged  her  back  into  a  ferment  of  doubt 
and  dread. 

It  was  a  quarter  to  six  when  the  young  woman 
reached  the  top  of  the  hill  which  was  crowned  by  the 
Van  Studdiford  house.  How  familiar  it  looked,  looming 
up  through  the  semi-darkness!  How  she  recognized 
every  stone  and  tile,  every  angle  and  jut,  that  formed  it ! 
The  library  was  lighted. — Charles  was  in,  then! — And 
the  room  over  the  drawing-room,  that  which  had  been 
the  nursery, — why  was  there  a  light  in  that? — Ah,  well, 
she  should  soon  know,  now.  And  as,  lingering  a  little, 
she  passed  into  the  grounds,  ghosts  of  memory  thronged 
close  about  her,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  well 
as  in  her  heart. 

354 


"YOU!"    HE  CRIED. 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


When  she  had  ascended  the  veranda  steps  Virginia 
did  not  ring  the  bell.  She  did  not  care  to  be  received 
by  Carson.  She  would  go  at  once  to  Charles,  in  the 
library. — It  had  been  better,  no  doubt,  had  she  reconciled 
herself  to  the  usual  form.  Yet  in  this,  also.  Fate  was 
perhaps  her  guide.  As  she  reentered  the  hall  the  lights 
were  suddenly  turned  up,  and,  dishevelled  by  the  wind, 
weary,  bewildered  as  she  was,  she  found  herself  face  to 
face  with  a  tall,  magnificently  formed  woman,  clad  in  a 
clinging,  decollete  gown  of  jet. 

Virginia  started  back.  For  an  instant  the  other  also 
stared,  amazement  and  displeasure  mingling  in  her  face. 
Then  her  lip  curled,  she  half  frowned  half  laughed,  and 
all  at  once  disappeared  into  the  library,  leaving  Virginia, 
dazed  and  helpless,  in  the  hall. 

Almost  immediately  the  library  door  re-opened  and 
Van  Studdiford  came  out.  The  door  banged  behind  him, 
and  he  advanced,  his  eyes  shining. 

"  You !  "  he  cried.    "  You  have  really " 

But  Virginia  broke  in  upon  him.  "  Who — "  she 
caught  her  breath,  "  who  is  that  woman  ? — Who  is  she, 
—Charles?" 

Her  husband's  expression  was  one  of  despair,  and  all 
the  abundant  color  had  left  his  face.  Yet  he  answered, 
almost  at  once,  quietly :  "  Her  name  is  Howard.  Muriel 
Howard." 

"  But — but — but — "  Virginia  stammered,  wildly,  and 
then  stopped.    Her  chaos  was  a  new  one,  now. 

Van  Studdiford  had  retreated  to  the  library  door  and 
stood  with  his  back  against  it,  as  if  to  protect  her  from 

355 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


what  was  within.  His  hands,  with  an  attempt  at  non- 
chalance, were  thrust  in  his  pockets.  His  feet  were  spread 
wide.  He  regarded  Virginia  steadily,  with  an  inward 
tremor  of  mingled  joy  and  dread. 

After  a  moment  she  gathered  herself  up,  with  a  piti- 
able attempt  at  dignity  in  the  midst  of  her  overpowering 
weariness.  "  But  of  course — we — I  am  sorry — we  can- 
not both  of  us  stay  here. — I — "  her  thoughts  had  leaped 
swiftly  to  the  truth,  but  she  was  too  tired  now  to  feel  any- 
thing keenly.     "  I — will  go  back " 

"  No,  Virginia !  "  Charles  sprang  forward  again. 
"  For  God's  sake,  no ! — You — shall  not  meet.  I  will  ar- 
range everything. — She  shall  go,  at  once." 

But  Virginia's  expression  did  not  brighten.  She 
seemed  to  wave  his  words  aside.  "  How  long,  Charles, 
—oh  Heavens ! — how  long  has  she " 

"  About  six  months,"  he  answered,  sternly  forcing 
himself  to  the  truth. 

There  was  a  silence.  Virginia  stood  gazing  into  space, 
her  face  so  wan,  so  white,  that  Charles'  heart  ached  for 
her,  and  throbbed  with  fury  at  himself.  Her  coming 
had  been  joyous.  But  now,  already,  her  plans,  her  hopes, 
her  dreams,  lay  all  about  her,  a  dreadful  wreck.  Yet 
she  could  still  think.  Indeed,  at  this  moment,  it  seemed 
as  if,  in  spite  of  everything,  the  acutest  understanding 
had  been  given  her.  While  she  stood  staring  at  and 
beyond  her  husband,  the  horror  slowly  faded  from 
her  eyes.  After  all — she  had  given  him  cause.  More. 
She  had  once  let  him  live  in  that  very  house  with 
— Ah!     He  did  not  ask  so  much  of  her!     And — if  he 

356 


THE  FIRE   OF  SPRING 


were  to  blame  as  much  as  she — would  it  not  be  easier  for 
both " 

He  beg^n,  at  this  point,  to  read  her  thoughts.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  life  in  him  were  renewed.  "  Virginia !  " 
he  said,  softly,  "  you  will  stay  ?  " 

She  had  never  dreamed  that  there  could  be  such  appeal 
in  his  voice.  "  You — want  me  ?  "  Actually,  she  could 
almost  smile. 

"  Want  you ! — Before  God — I — ^always  have !  " 

Still,  for  a  few  seconds,  she  hesitated,  fighting 
back  the  renewed  impulse  to  rush  away,  into  the  night, 
into  oblivion  and  that  darkness  of  which  she  had  such 
bitter  cognizance.  Ah !  What  was  hidden  by  the  library 
door  could  never  be  so  dreadful  as  that ! 

And  so,  all  at  once,  Charles'  perfected  vision  was 
hers  also.  There  descended  about  her  a  wonderful  light 
of  peace  and  promise.  Through  it  the  future  shone,  clear 
and  smiling.  The  gray  shroud  of  uncertainty  melted 
away.  She  and  Charles,  a  little  older,  gray,  perhaps, 
were  there,  in  a  picture,  with  their  children,  boys  and 
girls,  grouped  about  them.  She  moved  her  eyes  to  the 
face  of  the  actual  Charles,  and  smiled,  but  spoke  not,  be- 
cause of  the  tears  that  were  so  imminent.  Then,  unstead- 
ily, but  with  a  proud  heart,  she  moved  toward  the  stairs, 
reached  them,  looked  back  once,  and  finally,  her  hand  on 
the  rail,  though  her  feet  dragged,  she  drew  herself,  step 
by  step,  to  the  top. 

0) 

THE  END 


357 


A     000  128  055     1 


